


Comets Herald Dragons

by Karna97



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ...hopefully?, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Arthur Dayne lives, Ashara Dayne Lives, Aunt/Nephew Incest, But not Rhaegar rip, Cool uncle Oberyn, Daenerys is raised as Ashara's bastard, Dorne doesn't suck this time, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jonerys, Lyanna Stark Lives, Ned Stark Lives, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Dad Arthur, R Plus L Equals J, Slow Burn, Targaryen Restoration, but in this case, hopefully at least lmaooo, it's more like A plus R equals D
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-07-29 12:46:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16264496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karna97/pseuds/Karna97
Summary: Lyanna survives and flees to the Free Cities with her son and the Kingsguard, grooming him to take back the kingdoms they’ve been exiled from. With Viserys killed by his assassins, Robert Baratheon believes that the banished prince is the greater menace to his reign, unknowing that the daughter of Queen Rhaella wasn’t stillborn but had been taken to safety to be raised as Ashara Dayne’s bastard. When the prince comes to Dorne in search of allies he meets his guard’s niece who is still blissfully unaware of her real identity.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been something that's been churning in my mind since someone (labime on tumblr!) made an amazing mood board that sent my brain into overdrive. I knew that it would be a crime to leave this unwritten, so here we are! I'mma make a real effort to finish this, however long that takes. Targaryens and Daynes are the loves of my life so it's what they deserve.
> 
> Shoutout and credit to labime of course for the inspiration. Hope this reaches and exceeds your expectations. And shoutout to TheScarletGarden for the support and reading the prologue. So without further ado! *throws confetti*

**LYANNA ~~STARK~~ TARGARYEN**

Lyanna thought she was going to die.

The sweltering Dornish heat was baking her alive. She was of the North; the biting cold had been her companion for all her life, the ice and the hoarfrost her element. But its steady presence was nowhere to be found where she lay, writhing in the throes of childbirth. Here, hundreds of miles away from home in Westeros’ far south, she felt like she would melt into a puddle and evaporate into nothing. The hot, stifling air made taking measured breaths intensely uncomfortable. She desperately wanted to just close her eyes and drift into the corner of her mind where _he_ still dwelled; where he would work musical miracles with his silver harp and deft fingers, where he would lull her into a blissful blackness with the melody of his voice. Yet she couldn’t.

Not now, when her child was counting on her to deliver them to the world promised to it.

It was no surprise that it was going to be difficult. Despite being a woman grown and flowered, and for all her inner strength and fierceness, Lyanna was still a lithe and petite girl. The pain was excruciating and the Dornish heat addled her senses and there was so much _blood_ \--

A searing jolt of pain lanced through her at that thought, and there was nothing she could do to hold the scream that tore its way out of her mouth. One of the handmaidens patted a cold, damp cloth on her head, uttering sweet words of encouragement and comfort. At least, that’s what she assumed she was saying – the agony she suffered muffled the assistant’s voice and rendered it background noise, adamant to make itself the forefront of Lyanna’s attentions. Hells, she could scarcely hear herself think.

 _Gods…_ , Lyanna thought. _Men may endure the battlefield, but they could never endure this, I’m sure._

As though wanting to put her words to the test, the pain returned with a brutal vengeance. She felt it down to the marrow of her bones. She tried to scream yet again, but her voice seemed to have left her, a raspy croak taking its place. It seemed to have died, finally. Lyanna was terrified that she herself would follow soon. If it was the last thing she’d do, her babe would be born, she would make sure of it. She would push muscle and sinew to their limits, and beyond, and further still. But she couldn’t promise herself that she would live to see her babe’s future. If she didn’t then her child, her late husband’s last hope, would enter the world alone. Neither of its parents to guide or protect them, its father’s family all dead and gone, her own family at the behest of the vile man she ran away from. The man who killed the man she ran away _with_. She thought of little Aegon, and precocious Rhaenys, and dear Elia. Beaten, brutalised and butchered by their enemies, as though they were nothing but slabs of meat. The thought of her child suffering their fate made bile churn in her stomach.

_It was never meant to end like this._

The sickly woman, with all the leniency the Dornish were known for, had gifted Lyanna something she never deserved and sent them on their way here to this secluded tower in her motherland as sanctuary. Rhaegar had called it the Tower of Joy, the day he found out Lyanna bore his child. The three of them had a plan, she, Rhaegar and Elia. To dethrone Aerys the Mad and install Rhaegar as king in his place, to set the country back to rights without cheap draconic imitations or overambitious lions plotting to tear it apart. They truly, truly thought they would pull it off.

 _Oh, how wrong we were,_ Lyanna lamented. _Now Rhaegar’s body is drifting on the Trident’s tides and Elia is a desecrated corpse, and I’m the only one left._ The thought left her nearly drowning in guilt and sadness, the only thing keeping her afloat being the life that she and Rhaegar had created, fighting to escape her. In the end, it all came down to her. She should have done her duty, married Robert as was expected, bore his heirs as was expected. Perhaps then her brother and father and Elia and Rhae would still be alive, and Westeros wouldn’t be war torn and bleeding out like she was sure she currently was. She knew this.

She knew this and _yet_ she couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions.

She couldn’t regret allowing herself to fall for Rhaegar, her valiant and noble yet shy and bookish Rhae. She couldn’t regret the actions that brought Elia to her, her fierce inner strength belying her frailty. And above all else, she could never regret the little dragonwolf she had watched grow in her belly for moons, could _never_ give back the rare beaming smiles her Rhae would show her whenever he laid his hands on the swell. Her memories and her experiences in her last year were too precious, too sacred. Even knowing what would happen and all that would be lost, she didn’t believe she would do things differently, nor does she believe she would want to. This child, this little miracle she was giving birth to, was worth all of it. It carried the hopes and wishes of all those who led to it coming to be, she was certain. If that made her a horrible person, then so be it.

In her mind’s eye, Rhaegar and Elia looked upon her. Their smiles were sad, but their eyes shone with love and support. It erased her doubts and gave her strength.

“I can see its head, dear,” the handmaiden Ayla said. “Black curls, just like their mother.”

Something changed in Lyanna then. Suddenly she could put a face to the image of her babe. If the vicious pain didn’t assure her that this was all real, then that did. The sting from between her legs almost became welcome. She was filled with a newfound determination to see it for herself, and with the last of her power, she gritted her teeth and fisted her hands into the bedsheets, pushing as hard as she was able. Suddenly feeling an emptiness in the pit of her, she knew she had done it. Relieved, thoroughly exhausted and _dying_ for water, she slumped further into the bed, struggling to keep her eyes open.

But after a few moments to recover, she had realised that she heard no cries.

Confused, and suddenly filled with an entirely different kind of fear from before, she weakly pushed her torso up from the bed, just enough to look at Ayla, who had swaddled her babe in cloths and was looking at it with a mix of amused curiosity and wonderment. The other handmaidens looked on with her as they cleaned up the blood and mess, soft smiles on their lips.

“He is your husband’s son, ain’t he?”, Ayla mused with a smirk, finally turning to face Lyanna. “Brooding boy, just like he is. Not a sound from him, how peculiar.” She could hear the laughter in her voice.

_A son. God’s be good, a little boy._

Ayla laid him down in Lyanna’s open arms, and she held him close. He jostled in her grip slightly, turning his eyes to her. They were indigo. Dark, like his father’s. But they gained a greyish accent near the centre. Subtle, but surely there. They were Rhae’s solemn eyes. Lyanna could get lost in them, and she’d be more than happy to never escape them. Tears blurred her vision, yet the picture of her son staring back at her with curious eyes never lost its clarity.

“Hello, my sweet dragonwolf,” she whispered, so quietly she wasn’t sure if he had heard her. “My dear, sweet boy.”

He pulled an arm free from the swaddles with help from his mother and grabbed onto the finger she offered tightly. Her heart was lodged in her throat, ready to burst out of her. She and Rhaegar had decided to name a boy Jaehaerys, after his grandfather and the wise conciliator that preceded him. Yet with all that had transpired, with all that had been lost, and with all that she knew was to come, she had changed her mind. Her son would pick up the mantle that was stolen from his half-brother. He would honour him, and all those who came before him. If he were to be the last beacon of hope for the family the rebellion had slaughtered, no other name would have done. And she would see it so, as Lyanna Targaryen, rightful Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Aegon,” she decided, as she let the darkness of sleep take her, content. “Your name is Aegon.”

“What better name for a king?”

* * *

 

**EDDARD STARK**

Ned hoped he wasn’t too late.

He had gotten word from Varys’ little birds that Lyanna had last been seen in a tower on the northern edge of the Red Mountains of Dorne. He couldn’t trust the duplicitous man, who seemed to be too quick to jump to Robert’s service after King’s Landing was sacked.

He had told him privately, where Robert’s ears couldn’t hear them. Gods only knows why, but with the wide berth he planned to give Robert after he pardoned the foul crimes the old lion had committed, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was willing to take whatever information he could get, whoever the source was.

Right now, retrieving Lyanna was all that mattered.

And so here he rode, with his six companions through the dusty dunes of Dorne, wishing to finally save his sister and return her to the North where she belongs. Robert would surely demand her hand once again, but Ned wasn’t blind to the company he kept at night. Even after starting a war to get back his promised bride, it didn’t seem to stop him from bedding woman after woman as he so chose.

 _Lyanna was right about him_ , Ned realised. _He would have never stayed faithful to her. And I was too blind to see the truth of it_.

Ned had installed Robert to the Iron Throne after Aerys’ death at the treacherous hands of Jaime Lannister, but he was quickly beginning to regret his decision. He had pardoned the kingslayer for his crime of breaking oath and then pardoned Tywin for his…atrocities. Not of his own volition, images of Elia and her children flicked through his mind. Elia and Aegon, their heads nothing but splattered flesh and shattered bone. Rhaenys, with her countless knife wounds…

The very thought of it made him wish Tywin was before him so he could drive his sword though his gut.

And after Robert’s callous dismissal of their fates, a bigger part of him than he wanted to admit wanted to do the same to him. If Lyanna was averse to wedding him before, she would sooner die than take him as her husband once she found out. And, if Ned was being honest with himself, he wouldn’t blame her.

_Getting involved with southern affairs was a mistake. And it’s cost us more than we ever thought it could._

“Lord Stark,” Howland Reed called out, snapping him out of his thoughts. “I think this is it.”

Ned focused on to the tower coming into view in the distance. He urged his horse to go faster, as if she’d disappear if he got there even a few minutes later than possible.

Closure. Closure was waiting for him in the tower. And he’d finally be able to move forward from the death that had plagued his last year.

Finally coming to a halt at the foot of their destination, he climbed off his steed, waiting for the others to catch up. He felt uneasy at the silence in the area. Nobody was waiting for them it seemed. But that made no sense, Ned thought. _Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, Gerold Hightower…they weren’t at the Battle of the Trident. The last battle of their crown prince._ Had they been there, Ned knew, the battle may have gone very differently. _They were loyal to him, if nobody else. They should have been there. But if they weren’t there, I would have thought that perhaps they would be here? Standing guard of their prince’s hostage?_

Setting his eyes on the top of the tower, Ned twice belted Lyanna’s name out at the top of his lungs, desperately holding out hope despite the dread settling in his stomach. Nothing but the wind and the rattling of leafless trees answered him.

Martyn Cassel, one of his companions, asked what he was afraid to consider. “You don’t think the info was wrong, do you?”

Ned didn’t answer, his blood rushing in his ears. _No_ , Ned willed defiantly. _My sister is not lost to me. I’ve lost nearly everyone save Benjen, I won’t lose her too._

“Lord Reed, Lord Cassel,” Ned said, turning his sights to the stairs leading into the tower. “With me. The rest of you, stand guard out here, just in case.” With that, he set a brisk pace up the stairs, fighting off the urge to think of the worst-case scenario.

When he finally reached the uppermost room, he was welcomed to the faint, sweet smell of blood and roses.

And yet, the room was practically empty.

The furs, pillows and sheets of the bed had been pulled away, and the wardrobe had been emptied. Clothes, food, water…any and all signs of someone having resided here couldn’t be seen.

All, except, for a sole winter rose seated on a small table next to her bed, its stem wrapped in parchment.

“A letter?”, Howland asked, Ned walking in long purposeful strides towards it. He took the rose in shaking hands and unravelled the paper, bracing himself for its contents. To his shock, his eyes were met with Lyanna’s cursive. It was only a single line of writing, but it was enough to shake Ned to his core.

 _Winter is Coming,_ it said in clear bold letters, _with Fire and Blood_.

And in less than a moment, everything Ned thought he fought for was thrown into question.

* * *

 

**RHAELLA TARGARYEN**

Rhaella thought she was going to die.

 _No, I don’t think_ , she lamented grimly. _I know_.

The thunderstorm that raged outside was so ferocious she thought it must be an omen from the gods. The sea beat against Dragonstone’s rocky cliffs like a mighty hammer, rough and unrelenting. Lightning trailed through the stormy sky, lighting the darkness a deep shade of purple for infinitesimal moments at a time. The rain poured so hard and heavy one would likely drown simply standing out there. She hoped she had given her youngest son and Ser Darry enough time to sail east before the worst of the storm had set in. She was terrified they would die at sea before even reaching Braavos.

And here she was, giving birth to a child she knew would be the death of her.

 _It’s a girl, I’m sure of it_.

Rhaella had dreamed of her daughter. She had dreamed of the countless children she’d conceived and lost in the last 30 years in fact, but in her dreams those who would never live past infancy were featureless. Like a plain canvas; a faceless doll. It always filled Rhaella with grief, a grief that never got easier to endure, no matter how often they haunted her.

But her daughter? Her daughter couldn’t have looked more beautiful, couldn’t have looked stronger. Despite how she came to be, at the forceful urging of her savage husband, this last babe of hers would be her treasure, her shining amethyst. For all of her brother’s evil, she couldn’t help but thank him silently for gifting her the girl she always wanted. But with her many miscarriages, the abuse she endured from Aerys, and the stress of standing at the end of a three-century long dynasty, her body was too weak and fragile to handle another child. This birth, she knew, would mark the end of her. But she had made her peace with it, glad to give her life so that her little dragon would live.

_If only death can pay for life, I’ll happily pay the toll._

Helping her through the childbirth was a small number of loyal handmaidens who fled with her and Viserys to Dragonstone and, later on, the sister of the Sword of the Morning, Ashara Dayne. She had been one of her good-daughter’s ladies-in-waiting in the Red Keep. Kind and honest with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, Ashara was among Elia and Rhaella’s favourite company to keep among the court of masks and facades in King’s Landing. And an utter beauty she was, with jet black locks that cascaded down her back, and striking purple eyes not unlike those of a Targaryen. But her soft features were marred by the weight of her own haunting burdens, having miscarried a child of her own not long after her brother and his queen left Westeros. She had believed her brother had died when he was never heard from again after the Battle of the Trident, which she had believed he’d gone to. The anguish of losing her brother, Elia and the father of her child was more than her – or her babe – could handle. Whose child it was mattered not to Rhaella when Ashara told her, though she had a few ideas. She had seriously contemplated throwing herself from the top of the Palestone Sword in Starfall until she got a raven from her brother long after with the simple message “ _Stay well until we meet again, dear Ash_ ”.  Since then, she’s held onto that hope with everything she has, and in an effort to keep herself preoccupied and serve the last of the family she and her brother were sworn to, she made the journey east to Dragonstone.

Rhaella understood the pain she suffered all too well, having not only lost more children in the womb than she would ever even wish on her worst enemy, but had lost Elia and her eldest son Rhaegar too. The loneliness of losing everyone around her was crushing, and her only reason for not plummeting into an abyss of despair was because of the light of life that glowed within her. Were it not for her children, she would have likely ended it all herself years ago.

Ashara looked at her then, a sorrowful, knowing glint in her beautiful eyes. _She knows as well as I that my time in the living realm is coming to an end_ , Rhaella thought. Oddly, she felt guilt for it in that moment, for taking yet another person away from her, irrespective of her having a say in the outcome or not. Time was slowing down around her, and her vision was getting blurrier. Around her she could hear the muffled crying of her handmaidens, all of them trying to stay composed and keep her calm even though they could see the inevitable approaching. She could feel her lifeblood leaving her, steadily and surely. The worst of the pain was gone; now it was getting more and more numb as she started to lose feeling everywhere else.

But then she heard a shrill cry from between her legs on her next push and suddenly she was reinvigorated.

“Her head is out,” Ashara told her with a bittersweet smile. “Just a few more pushes for me, my lady, and your daughter is yours. Can you do that?”

 _As if I would say I couldn’t_ , Rhaella thought to herself, pushing harder, ignoring the agony ripping her apart. Her child was screaming at the top of her lungs, making her entrance known to the world. The sound of the raging maelstrom outside the castle walls gave way to the strength of her voice, asserting her dominance over the seas and skies. A victory cry of her mother’s final impeding triumph, a push of encouragement that motivated Rhaella like nothing or nobody else could. Gathering the last scraps of life left in her, she gave one final push, shattering past the pain barrier as though it was brittle glass, and her babe was out, whole and healthy.

“Here she is,” Ashara said, tears freely falling from her eyes. “Your little warrior.”

Rhaella weakly held her hands out for the baby, Ashara giving it to her with the slightest hint of reluctance. _Oh, my dear,_ Rhaella thought, sympathy overflowing. _Worry not_.

Rhaella looked to her daughter, ate her image greedily before her time ran out. A shock of silver hair on her head, and violet eyes that glittered like burnished amethysts. She cried and cried, yet it was music to her ears. Melodic, like tinkling bells. It was the balm she needed to soothe her, the only one that could. _Gorgeous_ , was all she could think when she looked at her, the world around her slowly falling away.

“Ashara, dear,” Rhaella called out in a voice that was barely a whisper. Ashara entered her field of vision, distinctly out of focus. She cupped her tear-streaked cheek with her right hand, gripping her daughter in her left.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Rhaella,” she whispered, “call me Rhaella.”

Ashara choked back a sob and put her hand over Rhaella’s, reining in her decreasing control of her emotions with a deep breath. “Yes, Rhaella?”

“House Dayne has sworn itself to House Targaryen,” she started. “You’ve been steadfast in your loyalty and exemplary in your duties. And thus, there’s no other person I would entrust this most important undertaking to.”

Ashara gripped her hand tighter. _She knows what I am to ask of her_ , Rhaella thought to herself. _Clever star, as always_.

“I request this as not only as queen consort, but as a mother.” She smiled, a weak and wobbly thing. “And I bestow this mission onto you not only because I trust you above all others to do your duty, but because I wish for you to experience the joys of motherhood that was once lost to you.”

Ashara broke then, incapable of doing anything but nodding her head. Her handmaidens were openly weeping at this point, and her heart swelled out of love and camaraderie for them all.

“Her name is Daenerys. Daenerys Stormborn. If Robert finds out who she is he’ll kill her. Her identity must be kept secret, even from her.” Rhaella’s breath was coming in small and smaller puffs. Her tether to the world was at a hair’s breadth, and it was fraying more with every second.

“Promise me you’ll protect her, Ashara. No matter what it takes. Promise me.”

Ashara, taking moments to find her voice, finally choked out “I promise”.

“Good,” Rhaella muttered, all fear leaving her. “Take her.”

Ashara forced herself away from Rhaella’s right side, circling the bed around to her left. Rhaella turned her head to Daenerys, resting their foreheads together. Her new-born daughter had settled down and laid a tiny hand on Rhaella’s cheek. She marvelled at how warm she was.

“Goodbye, my Stormborn,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “And know that your mother will always love you.”

Ashara took Daenerys from her arms, and endless darkness rushed up to meet her.

The tether snapped.


	2. AEGON I, ARTHUR I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon thinks about the future. Arthur airs out his worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [labime](http://labime.tumblr.com/post/178397966437) for letting me use her glorious mood board for this chapter! Hope you like it!

**~~~~ **

 

**~~JON SNOW~~ AEGON TARGARYEN**

“What’s the matter, Egg?”

He was snapped out of his thoughts by his mother’s query. He’d been so lost in his own mind that he didn’t even notice her approach beside him on the balcony. She looked at him expectantly, her brows creased despite the soft smile she wore.

“You’re brooding again.”

Aegon scoffed and couldn’t help but smile back at her. “You know that that’s just how my face is, Mother. I’m fine.”

She gave him a knowing look – the kind that saw right through him. “You know you don’t have to hide your worries from me son, don’t you?”

A part of him hated when she said things like that. Not because he didn’t appreciate it, but because it made him feel bad when he tried to keep things to himself. He was sure his mother knew the effect her words had on him too – she’d said as much to him before.

 _You’re just like your father,_ she had told him, with love and sadness in equal measure. _Quiet and sullen and content with bearing your burdens alone so long as others don’t have to. You may be a closed book to everyone else, but not to me._

And so far, she hadn’t been proven wrong either. He knew it was for the best regardless; if he couldn’t confide in his mother of all people, how could he trust anyone?

With a sigh, Aegon turned his sights back to the view of the sparkling Bay of Pentos. The sun was setting over the horizon to the west, colouring the distant skies in the reds and oranges of dusk. The sky above him had taken a violet hue, which blurred in with the colours in the distance – darkness and light melding seamlessly. The image was reflected onto the surface of the Narrow Sea like a watercolour painting, rippling with the waves and sparkling against the sun’s fading rays. It was a sight that never got stale to Aegon – the one thing he would miss when the time came to leave Essos and take back what was his. In a way, the view reminded him of what kept him going, through his 17 years in exile. The sun was a compass, always pointing him in the direction where his destiny lay. To the West, where the Sunset Kingdoms awaited. And as sure as he was that the sun would rise again in the east and set to the west, Aegon knew his eventual return was inevitable.

Aegon couldn’t help but worry. No, not just worry – there was no small amount of fear in his heart too. His entire life had been building up to what was coming. The running and the hiding, the starving and the sleepless nights with nothing but the stars overhead keeping him shelter. His mother and Arthur, Oswell and old Gerold. They had suffered with him, put all their hopes in him. His Kingsguard were more than just his subjects. They were his family. He had lost his valiant father before he ever met him, but in his place his most loyal friends had picked up his mantle and loved him like Rhaegar would have – protected him with their lives. And that was his greatest fear; letting them down and wasting all that they had sacrificed for his sake.

“I was just thinking of home,” he said after a long silence. “Westeros, I mean. And the future.”

Lyanna sighed deeply, leaning on to the balcony to look at the sea with her son. “As do I, Egg. Every day. It’s just been one danger after another since we left. I would take the first ship to White Harbour and go back to Winterfell if I could. Show you the godswood and glass gardens, introduce you to your uncles. But…

“I know, Mother,” Aegon said, pulling her in for a side hug. “It wouldn’t be safe for us, with the stag and his minions lurking around every corner. We can’t go home without an army.”

Lyanna nodded. “Right. That's what we agreed to. Get ourselves an army, rally allies to our cause and take back the crown that belongs to you. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Easier said than done,” Aegon replied. “We need an army, but we don’t exactly have much to choose from. Our only option is to throw our lot in with sellswords whose only allegiance is the gold that fills their coffers. And if we’re to acquire those men, we need Illyrio, and the only difference between him and the sellswords is that he armours himself in perfume and silk instead of leather and steel.”

“Keep it down, Egg,” Lyanna chided, though he didn’t miss the ghost of a smirk she wore for a split second at the corner of his eye. “The walls have ears.”

“I doubt he cares what we say, so long as we keep our end of the bargain,” he countered, though he dropped his voice to a whisper regardless. He was rather sure of his sentiment, but all the same he didn’t want to take any risks. Not now, when they were so close. “I’m just not comfortable being indebted to a man like him.”

“I know. We’ve seen those ‘house servants’ of his. A man who deals in slavery can be trusted about as far as you can throw him," she sneered. "Arthur had to practically strongarm Oswell into not beheading the magister when he realised the truth, remember?” Despite his worries, his mother still managed to wrench a chuckle out of him at the memory. Oswell was always a bit hot-headed.

Lyanna turned fully to him then, prompting Aegon to meet her gaze. She had a stern expression on her features. “But it isn’t about trust, son. You, me and the boys. We’re the only ones we can trust on this side of the Narrow Sea. Us, and nobody else. Understood?” Aegon nodded, a question in the furrows of his brows. “We may not be able to trust them, but we _do_ know how they operate. We know that sellswords will sell their allegiance to the highest bidder, and we know that Illyrio will likely expect us to make him master of coin when we take the Iron Throne back. We know what they want, and so long as they get it, they’ll comply to our wishes. That’s just how these men are, Egg.”

Aegon couldn’t help but heave out an aggrieved sigh. He despised the game; the dealings and the deceit and the hidden agendas. He would have much preferred it if people said what they meant and meant what they said, an opinion he was sure his mother shared with him.  But what he wanted and what was needed were often two different things. And he needed to appeal to these greedy, fickle men if he wanted to progress forward.

 _Whatever it took to get home_ , Aegon thought resolutely. _Anything for my family to see their homes again._

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go back in. I’m sure the bejeweled sea cow will want to hear from us.”

“Egg!” Lyanna shouted with mock admonishment and a slap to his shoulder. There was nothing holding back the big teethy grin that gripped her features as she walked back into the manse, and as always, Aegon made sure to store that image in the place where he kept all the other precious memories he’d gathered in the years.

As well as Lyanna could read Aegon, the same could be said for him. There was a melancholy in her eyes only he would notice at times, haunted by the horrors and the mistakes and the losses of the past. He knew that sometimes, when things got too daunting, she would send out a prayer to his father, wherever he was. Asking him for strength, for direction, to look over them. She’s the strongest person he knew, but even the strongest people needed their private moments of weakness before they snapped under the weight of their burdens.

The thought of it made Aegon scoff inwardly. _And she says that **I’m** the one who keeps things bottled up._

Still, he never called his mother out on it, knowing that she was the most stubborn person alive and would never admit to it, especially not to her son. His wish to support her as she had him was a stronger driving force than anything else, even the throne. From his seventh name day he’d begun to learn how to fight from Arthur Dayne, Westeros’ greatest swordsman and the closest thing to a father figure he had. He’d learned of Westeros’ Houses and the kingdom’s commerce from Gerold Hightower of the Reach, whose family dealt in trade. He’d gone out into the markets with Oswell and spent time among the smallfolk, freedmen and ‘servants’ alike, though he had assigned himself Ser Whent’s translator once it became apparent to him that Oswell would sooner will the masses to speak the Common Tongue than take the time to actually become fluent in Valyrian.

 _We won’t need it in Westeros,_ he’d argued, seemingly brushing underneath the carpet that he’s spent nearly twenty years exposed to it. _Though it’d be good for you to learn it, Jon. It was your father’s mother tongue after all._

In the past year he had even mustered the stomach to ask _Illyrio_ for his knowledge on economic manoeuvring, even though he probably tacked on some secret additional fee to their deal as a result. It was all preparation for what was to come, of course, to become the king that Westeros deserved, that it desperately needed. But more than anything else, it was to grow into a man who could finally free his mother from the weight that she had likely carried since the day he was born. If he could free the wild spirit Lyanna used to harbour before she locked it away behind the guise of a dutiful queen mother…if he could make her laugh more often and smile more easily, help her to finally move on fully from the ghosts of the rebellion…

Well, there’s little else Aegon would wish for.

 

* * *

 

**ARTHUR DAYNE**

The Sword of the Morning’s eyes lay transfixed on House Dayne’s legendary greatsword as he honed it with a whetstone, sat outside on a wooden bench in the manse’s garden. Darkness had fully swept over Pentos by now. Illyrio’s servants had lit the numerous lanterns and braziers scattered around the household, the warm light and the crackling of the flames instilling a peaceful ambiance to an already quiet night. Dawn’s white luster seemed to glow even brighter in response to the fires, as though fighting for dominance, refusing to be outshone.

But despite the comfort his surroundings encouraged, Arthur couldn’t tamp down on his unease.

The time was approaching for his king to finally set sail to take back his family’s throne. They had been fighting endlessly since they had left all those years ago, always fearful, never safe. Arthur was never one to run from a fight. Nor were his fellow brothers in the Kingsguard. Until their last breath they would shield their king’s back, and their queen’s, from the scum the usurper would send after them. And as reward, he had watched Aegon grow from a babe born with nothing but a name to a man grown, a man his father would have been proud of – a man that _he_ was proud of.

 _You’re as much my family as my mother Arthur_ , Aegon had once told him after a particularly close call with yet another attempt on his life. Arthur had stayed back to deal with a sizeable host of assassins and commanded his brothers to retreat with their king from Myr and protect him from whoever else may be lurking in the shadows. He had told them to rendezvous with him on the path to Tyrosh, promising them that he wouldn’t be long. Naturally a group of amateurs ten and two strong stood no chance, though they gave him a few scratches here and there, but young Aegon worried all the same.

 _You and mother, and Oswell and Gerold…you’re all I have left._ And so, with all the regality an eleven-year old could muster, he gave his first command as a king: _I command you not to die_.

And six years later, die he did not.

Arthur wasn’t certain when he began seeing Aegon as something of a surrogate son. Hells, Arthur wasn’t even sure when he started referring to him as ‘Aegon’ more often than his formal title. But if he had to choose a starting point, it had to have been after then. The earnest wish of a boy who had already lost too much, who had been made to grow up too soon. After that was likely when Arthur began to let down his walls of propriety, as Aegon began coming to him more often, confiding in him about one thing or another – usually things someone his age shouldn’t need to worry about. In those times, Rhaegar’s image came though despite his Stark colouring, his father’s sullen eyes mirrored into Aegon’s dark indigo ones. Arthur was Rhaegar’s closest friend during the latter’s time alive, so he supposed it was only natural for his son to put his trust in him as his sire did. It was never a chore for Arthur, and never would be - he always felt honoured to be there for them.

Their years in exile had, in Lyanna’s words, made them a pack. A pack that sticks together through the best and worst of times. Arthur had grown to cherish them all, had grown to love his king and queen as more than just his king and queen. Lyanna had filled the void his dear sister had left behind when they escaped Robert’s clutches. And Aegon had become more than just his duty; he was his companion, his student, his reason for fighting.

Yes, in a way, Arthur had become Aegon’s father when Rhaegar couldn’t be. And just as any good parent would, Arthur fretted over the prospect of his king finally entering the great game. It had not occurred to him how fiercely protective of him he had become until their determined path had showed itself, and suddenly the reality that their years of exile were about to end finally became apparent. The feelings of accomplishment and nervous anticipation at finally returning home were expected – and the boiling of his blood at their opportunity to bring the whoremongering usurper to his knees even more so – but he was entirely unprepared for the fear that gripped his heart like a cold phantom. He had already lost Rhaegar, and despite his prince wanting him to shield his wife’s back instead of his own at the Trident, Arthur could never fully convince himself that he hadn’t failed his friend that day.

But he understood why he had to leave Rhaegar to his fate, every time he looked upon his son. As much as it pained Arthur to admit it, Rhaegar and Lyanna’s actions had drowned Westeros in blood and had taken the lives of many thousands. Even if Rhaegar had survived, even if he had taken the crown, the resentment that would have arisen among the people once the truth of Rebellion was revealed would have likely hung over his reign like a stigma.

But Aegon was a clean slate, guiltless of his parents’ actions. And he was Westeros’ best hope he was certain. His fallen friend’s last hope.

And Arthur would tear down the sky to keep that hope alive.

 _I may have failed the father, but I will not fail the son_ , Arthur thought decisively, whetting Dawn with broader strokes and greater vigour.

“Why do you even bother with that, Arthur?”

Arthur quieted his thoughts and looked up to see Oswell Whent leaning on the wall with his arms crossed, looking at him intently. His face was upturned in amusement, wearing a smirk that made his high cheekbones appear even higher.

“Bother with what?”

“Sharpening that sword of yours,” Oswell replied. “It’s cut from a bloody meteor, Arthur. As sharp as Valyrian steel. I doubt it takes any work at all to keep the edge sharp.”

“It’s to keep it lustrous, Whent. Dawn’s been passed down from one Sword of the Morning to the next for ten thousand years, and in all these years it still hasn’t lost its sheen.  I won’t be the one to neglect taking care of it and make it look as dull as cheap porcelain.”

After a beat, Arthur continued. “Though to be honest, I do it more for me than for the sword,” Arthur admitted. “Helps me think.”

“And what are you thinking about?”

Arthur groaned in mock annoyance. “You’re very nosy, have I told you that?”

“I’m sure I’d have a sack of gold by now if you gave me a coin for every time you have,” Oswell chuckled.  “You’re always quick to press Jon to unload his worries for you but gods forbid someone gives you the same treatment.”

Arthur frowned. “Why do you call him that?”

“Call him what?”

“Jon.”

“Doesn’t he look like a Jon to you?” Oswell replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Unless he secretly has red hair, no,” Arthur retorted, remembering the rooster who kept Rhaegar in close company. He wondered what he was doing now, if he was even alive.

“Well he doesn’t exactly look like an Aegon either.”

“And pray tell, Whent, what does an Aegon look like?”

“Not like a Dayne, for starters.”

Arthur blinked several times. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” Oswell drawled, “he’s dark of hair like his mother with his father’s indigo eyes. Not much different from you and your sister, no?”

Arthur didn’t really know how to answer that. He thought for the briefest of moments of Aegon being a true son of his, his and Lyanna’s, but the thought was eradicated as soon as it came. “In that case Jon— _Aegon_ I mean, doesn’t look like any Targaryen name would fit him if we simply go off of appearance now, does he?”

“I think Jaehaerys would have fit him well actually,” Oswell countered, scratching the stubble on his chin. “At least before Lyanna changed her mind. 

“So I thought, well, put Jaehaerys—” Oswell said, holding one hand up in front of him, “and Aegon—”, holding up his other hand, “together—“, grasping his hands together in a clap, “and you get…?”

“Jaegon?” Arthur responded, knowing where he was going with it but refusing to acknowledge it. “Aehaerys? Are you soft in the head, Whent? Just call him by his given name for fuck’s sake.”

“Well until he says he doesn’t like Jon, I won't amend it Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and looked away from him. Oswell could be a most morbid man at one moment and almost childlike the next.

“And you’ve yet to answer my earlier question, Dayne. What has you thinking?”

He hesitated to answer but feeling Ser Whent’s glare boring into the side of his head made it evident that he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Arthur heaved out a frustrated breath.

 _Nosy bat,_ he thought with agitation.

“I’m worried about Aegon,” he mumbled, a flush crawling up his neck. Was he some scullery maid? Was it such a task to simply be candid?

“What was that?”

“I said,” Arthur nearly belted out, “I’m worried about Aegon.”

“Oh, I heard you the first time,” Oswell said, laughter lacing his words. “But seeing you blush like a little girl made me ask again.”

Arthur shot him a death glare then, though it seemed to only enlarge Ser Whent’s shit-eating grin. Somehow his cheekbones only accentuated it.

“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not, Bat?”

“Don’t have to tell me much else, Arthur.” Oswell’s grin fell, but a soft, understanding smile took its place. “Listen, it’s no secret that you love Aegon dearly. I love him too, as does old Hightower, but not as deeply as you do.  I’m sure the feeling is mutual on our king’s end too.”

Arthur stayed silent.

“It’s natural that you fear for him Arthur but give the boy some credit. You know him, he excels at whatever he puts his mind to, he’s got a good heart in him—"

Arthur cut him off then. “And that’s just it. That’s what scares me.”

He turned his eyes to one of the blossoming cherry trees in the garden, but his mind’s eye was focused on something else – some _when_ else.

“He’s so much like Rhaegar, Whent," Arthur whispered into the evening breeze. "Men went to war for him, fought and bled and died for him, because they loved and believed in him. And it wasn’t because he was a fast learner or because it was their duty. It was his genuineness, his gentle heart, that drew countless others to him; that compelled so many to fight for a king who honestly deserved to burn in the hottest hell of the seven.

“For all his single-minded determination Rhaegar was inherently shy, and bookish. He preferred his harp to his lance, the company of his own thoughts to the company of others. And there had always been this profound…sadness that hung over him, knowing he was born amidst a tragedy that nearly ended his family. Yet despite his reserved nature anyone who had met him knew the kindness he possessed, where his father has little and less of the same. He was quick to forgive and even quicker to love. And for all his prowess as a warrior, there was nothing he hated more than the battlefield. Perhaps that was what lost him the battle against the usurper in the end – his unwillingness to spill blood and dirty his soul, no less the blood of a cousin.”

Oswell had been listening to his brother-in-arms with his full attention, unspeaking, letting him sort through his feelings and gather his thoughts, and for that Arthur was grateful.

“Aegon is much of the same. The actions of his parents may have led him to be, but it also tore the country apart. And even though it's a foolish sentiment he would never admit to, I know that deep down he feels responsibility for it. He wants to...redeem his parents and prove that he wasn't better off never being born. And yet to do so, he'll undoubtedly have more blood on his hands when it's all said and done than any person his age should. He’s killed assassins sent after him before, sure, but killing a handful of men in self-defense and killing hundreds and thousands of men by your own hand in the name of conquest are two entirely different things. We’ve done all we could from here to prepare him for what lies ahead of us, but what of full-blown war? We can’t do anything to truly ready him for that. He’s already burdened by the expectations he believes he has to meet, and then he’ll have the weight of his conscience bearing down on him as well?"

He huffed heavily and turned his tired gaze back to his friend, hoping he understood. “He is my king and as his subject I’ll always believe he has what it takes. I will serve him and support him in whatever he does. But as simply Arthur Dayne? I wish I could just take him away from it all, destiny and hideous iron chairs be damned.”

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, talking helped Arthur. He felt lighter, and while speaking of it didn’t absolve him of his worries, it at least got them off his chest.

Oswell looked at Dawn with his brows furrowed in contemplation, before giving Arthur a nod of acknowledgement and approached to sit next to him on the bench.

“I think you should talk to him,” Oswell decided. “If I have learned anything in these last 17 years—”

 _A new language definitely **not** being one of those things, _Arthur thought to himself randomly.

“—it’s that you and Jon have the same bad habit of keeping your thoughts and feelings locked away. You want to be the pillars, level-headed and unflappable for everyone else's sake. But internalising these things have never done anyone any good. Hiding things is what got us into this situation in the first place.”

Arthur couldn’t help but agree. He wondered how much trouble and bloodshed could have been averted had Rhaegar and Lyanna simply made themselves known from the start. Perhaps none at all – if Robert Baratheon’s fixation on killing Aegon and Lyanna both was any indication, he was just as bloodthirsty for being scorned by his betrothed as he was believing she had been stolen.

“I am positive that everything you worry about, Jon is also worried for too. The chains of command will be heavy, and he probably knows this better than anyone – so it’s up to us to make those chains lighter for him. And the first person that he would then wish for support from—” Oswell said, pointing to Arthur, “is you.”

Arthur nodded. He was right. Simply being his Kingsguard wasn’t enough. Not anymore. He had to be _more_.

For his king, his friend, his son in all but blood, he would become _more_.

“Thank you, Whent. Truly.”

Oswell gave him a satisfied smirk. “Of course. Besides, for all we know Jon’s actually a beast who hangs his enemies’ entrails from castle battlements. Wouldn’t have to worry about him being soft then.”

 _There_ was the morbid bat he’d come to know.

“Stop calling Aegon that.”

“Stop calling me what?”

At that, both looked towards the door to see the boy in question and his mother walking towards them.

It was Oswell to respond. “Hey, do you mind me calling you Jon?”

Lyanna’s face was the picture of bemusement, while Aegon gave him an exaggerated eye roll. “I _did_ mind, since you seemed to conjure it out of nothing. But since you revert back to it shortly after every time I ask you to cut it out, I eventually had to get used to it.” He shrugged. “Didn’t give me much of a choice.”

Oswell looked back to Arthur, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips that Arthur had an overwhelming urge to punch off his face.

“So he _doesn’t_ like the stupid name after all?” Arthur asked. “Would you stop being so obnoxious?”

“Funnily enough,” Lyanna started, her northern accent quilting each word, “my brother Ned would have liked that name I think. I may have named him such if he wasn't a Targaryen first and foremost.”

“Well he looks like a Jon.”

Arthur was too tired to entertain him with a response.

“Anyway,” Aegon said, bringing his great naming debate to an inconclusive end, “we’re just about to have a debriefing of our plan before we choose and contact the army of our choice. Gerold and Illyrio are already waiting in the common room.”

 _Illyrio._ It didn’t take a genius to know he couldn’t be trusted, especially when he keeps snakes like Varys the Spider as friendly company. But as circumstance would have it they needed him and, regardless, they owed him for giving them protection and shelter for the last year.  Arthur held his tongue and nodded once before getting up, Oswell following behind him. He let Lyanna and Ser Whent walk on ahead before pulling Aegon back with him.

“Arthur?” Aegon asked.

“Would you mind discussing a few things, tomorrow? By your leave, of course.”

There was a hint of confusion on Aegon’s face, but it quickly faded. “Of course. Whenever you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I took some liberties with Oswell Whent's character. We know essentially nothing about him other than him having a bat motif, a dark sense of humour, and having a sassy comeback to Ned Stark in their canon encounter. So I fused these scarce qualities into this competent dork, hope you like him lmao
> 
> If anyone wonders what my personal image of Arthur Danye is, it's [this.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/a07588def966b6921410c1e7561b04ea/tumblr_ooulpd7crQ1tikkm9o1_1280.jpg)
> 
> Lemme know what you think!


	3. DANY I, ASHARA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Martells pay Starfall a visit. Ashara drops a bombshell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanks to [labime](http://labime.tumblr.com/) for the gorgeous ass mood board. Honestly it was this mood board that was the real motivator to starting this fic rofl, it looks so GUD.

 

**~~DAENERYS TARGARYEN~~ DANY SAND**

Dawn had come once again to Starfall as the sun rose from below the horizon and banished the darkness that preceded it. The myriad stars that adorned the night sky slowly faded from sight, the countless shining lights dulling in favour of the sun’s splendour. At a certain point, in the hour of the nightingale, the lights of day and night would coexist to paint a picture of beauty that not even the finest of artists could hope to replicate. All the while, the mountains to the west gradually took on the red hue that they were named for. A landscape with sights only the denizens of Starfall were privileged to see every day.

Dany and her cousin Edric Dayne had made a daily tradition of witnessing dawn together from the Palestone Tower before attending to their duties. Having lived together since Edric was a but a babe at the breast, Edric and Dany were siblings in all but blood, in every other way that mattered. And with their similar resemblances, they were often mistaken for being so by visitors of the castle. Edric’s father, Ulrick Dayne, had taken ill and passed on when Edric was only ten name days old, and as his only heir, Edric had no choice but to step up to the role of head of House Dayne and Lord of Starfall. He had felt unprepared and inadequate, but Dany’s steadfast support had been what he needed to come into his own and fully accept the mantle. She had been groomed into a lady and a ruler in her own right by her mother, Ashara Dayne, and was only so quick to lend Edric her counsel whenever he required it.

They were young, but underestimating either of them, especially as the formidable team they had grown into together, was a dire mistake. The ancestral sword of the Daynes had not seen Starfall in 17 years, but in its place a sword just as sharp had been forged of wits and determination by the pale-haired and precocious pair, and they had defended their House admirably since then.

“Prince Oberyn said he’d be coming here soon, didn’t he?”, Edric asked, breaking the companionable silence between the two.

“He might be here today, considering he sent that raven from Yronwood confirming he was on the way only a few days past,” Dany answered.

“Why do you think aunt Ashara summoned him here?”

“No clue,” Dany admitted. “Mother told me that she would explain to us when Oberyn got here, but I can only assume it’s something of utmost importance – otherwise she would have told us by now.”

 _Mother rarely keeps anything from me for long_ , Dany thought briefly. _Well, except for who my father is_.

“Not to mention Oberyn has seldom needed prompting to visit us before, Ned,” Dany said with a grin. “For Seven’s sake, he’s more vagabond than nobleman.”

“True,” Edric chuckled. “Though I think Oberyn is curious about her request too. The correspondence he sent seemed less jovial than what we’re used to.”

Dany nodded in agreement. “But if we’re going to get the details from her today or tomorrow, there’s not much point in wracking our heads over what it could be.”

“I suppose not,” Edric agreed, turning to Dany with a smirk. “But I know you’ll try to figure it out anyway.”

Dany ruffled his hair until he slapped her hand away. “So what if I do?”

Soon enough, they began to hear people moving about the keep. Starfall was waking up, and the time to lock away the children they were had come. They had a castle to run.

Dany looked to Edric with a small smile. A boy of ten-and-twelve he was in truth – though he was nearly at height with her already – but he stood with a confidence that was nearly invisible only two years ago. The new-found power he held terrified him, but just as she had expected, he had taken it in stride. She could see the steel in his deep blue eyes and couldn’t help but feel proud of her cousin; her kind little brother.

“Ready, Ned?”

He hummed in affirmation.

“Ready.”

~ ~ ~

Oberyn, his paramour Ellaria and three of his daughters – Tyene, Sarella and Nymeria – had reached Starfall after noon that same day. Dany and Edric had greeted them in the courtyard, alongside their aunt Allyria. For some reason, her mother wasn’t there with them, deciding instead to wait for them in her private solar. Dany was admittedly beginning to worry but thought better than to dwell on it.

The other household servants would have normally stood at attention for their entrance as well, but they knew the Martells never liked them to make a fuss over it. It didn’t stop Edric from trying anyway.

“Welcome to Starfall, Prince Oberyn,” Edric had said, in a strong voice. “I hope you find your stay here to be—”

“Oh quiet, you stiff boy,” Oberyn cut off, striding forward and wrapping him in a tight hug, patting him roughly on the back. Dany saw the air visibly leave Edric and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“I told you, Ned. Propriety’s wasted on him.”

“That, it is,” Sarella agreed, following suit and embracing Dany. “I’m happy to see you again.”

“As am I.” Of Oberyn’s daughters, Sarella was the one Dany was closest to. Tyene, Nymeria, Obara and the other Sand Snakes were often happier with steel and poisons in hand. Even little Dorea Sand was fond of swinging her morning star at the branches of hanging fruit in the Water Gardens. Of course, Dany knew how to defend herself; whenever she and Edric visited Sunspear, Oberyn or his daughters often had to practically wrench her books out of her hands and carry her away from their library to partake in combat practice. Dany could say that she knew her way with a rapier. But she preferred sharpening her mind to sharpening weapons, preferred concocting plans to concocting toxins. And that was a sentiment she shared with Sarella. Save for Edric, she was her best friend.

Tyene and Nymeria joined in on the huddle-up, and Dany couldn’t help but think she was being reunited with family. She hoped they felt the same.

“Hope we aren’t intruding on your little reunion,” Nymeria lilted.

“Not at all, Nym,” Dany assured her over Sarella’s shoulder. I hope all of you have been well.”

“As well as I can be,” Tyene responded from behind. “Arianne sends her regards.”

“Oh fuck Arianne,” Nymeria spat. “You owe me, Dany. I was meant to be in bed with one of the finest bedwarmers in Sunspear right now. But I sacrificed what could have been my best fuck in months, all so I could visit _you_ , you slip of a girl. Arianne couldn’t wait to take advantage on my absence, of course. Wench.”

Dany’s cheeks warmed as shook her head in amusement. Oberyn’s daughters were always more open with their carnal desires, but Dany couldn’t help but admire their unhindered sense of freedom.

 _Better wanton and free than prim and subservient_ , Dany mused, thinking back on the noble ladies from the rest of Westeros that she had encountered before. She was comfortable with Starfall, which seemed to be a happy medium between the two.

Tyene couldn’t help but giggle at her outburst. “As I said, as well as _I_ can be. I cannot speak for everyone it seems.”

They all finally broke away from each other, only for Oberyn to appear and immediately envelop her in his arms again. Dany could only give a mirthful huff and return the embrace. Despite the mad viper that lay in wait for his enemies, there was something undoubtedly welcoming and perhaps _fatherly_ about him that made Dany feel safe and protected in his presence.

He pulled back just enough to be face-to-face with her. “You grow more beautiful every day, silver star.”

“Surely you jest Oberyn, it’s only been a few moons since I saw you,” Dany teased.

“I said every day, didn’t I?” he retorted, grinning. He released her from his grip, so Dany could wave a greeting to his paramour, who was preoccupied talking with Allyria.  

“Where is Ash, Dany?

“In her solar, still. She told us to escort you there when you arrived.”

Oberyn frowned. “She would not come out here to greet us?”

Dany could only shrug. Her mother had been acting withdrawn and wound tight all day. She’d never seen her act like that before, but Dany didn’t want to prod her about it.

“Perhaps it has something to do with her summoning me here. Has she told you anything?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Oberyn’s brows furrowed in thought. “That is…concerning. Well, we’ll get no answers here. Lead the way?”

Dany nodded, and turned to Edric, who was talking with Oberyn’s daughters. His lightly tanned face was red as a plum – clearly Nym and her sisters weren’t sparing him from anything sordid. She could have called out to him, but a sadistic and childish part of Dany wanted him to keep squirming under their attentions, so she turned to Allyria instead.

“Aunt,” she called out to her. She rounded to Dany and raised her brows in question. “Could you lead Oberyn’s family to their rooms while Ned and I take him to mother’s solar?”

“Oh of course.” she responded. Turning back to Ellaria, Allyria spoke to her loud enough for the Sand Snakes to overhear her. “Well, I’m sure you’re all tired after the long journey. I’ll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Ellaria replied with a warm smile. As they began to walk into the keep, the sisters reluctantly ceased Edric’s torture and began to follow suit, but not before Nymeria left him with some parting words.

“This conversation is not over, Lord Dayne. You’ll have to learn soon, or else your future consort may find you rather lacking for a Dornishman,” she said almost matter-of-factly.

Edric was stunned into wide-eyed silence, opening and closing his mouth but no words ever escaping. It pulled a rather unladylike snort out of Dany, which earned a piercing glare from the young lord. It did nothing to help her rein in her laughter – if anything, it only spurred her on.

“Greener than grass,” Oberyn chuckled. “Are you going to take me to your aunt or not, Edric?”

Edric, trying to regain composure, exhaled an exasperated breath and pulled his feet from the spot on the ground he was seemingly stuck to.

“I implore you, Dany,” Edric gritted out, “don’t leave me alone with them.”

“Oh please,” Dany laughed. “I couldn’t stop them from making you uncomfortable even if I wished to. And I’m not sure that I would.”

She pretended to be oblivious to Edric’s gaze searing into her temple as the three of them made their way to her mother, and the answer to her behaviour.

* * *

 

**ASHARA DAYNE**

Ashara had been sitting in solitary silence, playing with the hem of her purple velvet gown after word reached her that Oberyn had arrived in Starfall. The joy of seeing her childhood friend again had lasted only a brief moment before the disquiet quickly set in. She stared hard at the ceiling of her solar, hoping she could find ease in the gold constellations engraved into the purple marble.

Hoping she’d find the right way to articulate her request to Oberyn.

To say that she was about to ask much of him was a massive understatement, even taking their friendship into account. Oberyn was always volatile, with a temper that could match a dragon’s. He neither forgave nor forgot a slight, and the slight that she would touch upon was a grave one indeed for the Martells. Seven-and-ten name days later, the sting of Elia’s injustice had barely abated for her; only the presence of her daughter in her life had encouraged her to move forward from the darkness that hovered over her days in the rebellion. But even so, for all the love and respect she held for her, Elia was not her beloved sister.

The hatred that Oberyn held for the Lannisters who had orchestrated the massacred her and her children ran deeper than nearly anything else. His thirst for vengeance on the perpetrators, on the monster who’d raped Elia and crushed her skull, had driven him to spend years preparing for his eventual opportunity to slay him. But he also held deep-seated contempt for Rhaegar, who had dishonoured and shamed Elia for the entire realm to see.

And now, she was about to bring all of that buried pain back to the surface.

 _Remember who you do this for_ , Ashara urged herself, digging deep for her calm and inner strength.

_For your brother. For Rhaella. For her daughter— **your** daughter, and her last living relation._

Ashara had spent years trying to decipher the deeper meaning of Arthur’s last note to her besides a promise to return. She had no clue where he had gone, though the mere reassurance that he was alive and well somewhere was the lifeline she needed to keep living after the endless losses she had experienced. She didn’t have the full picture, but she could figure out enough from the pieces she could gather. The implications of her conclusions were clear. And as averse as she was on angering Oberyn, he needed to know.

A knock on the door brought her back to the present, and her heart momentarily dropped in her stomach. She braced herself for what she knew was coming and stood to greet her guests to enter. Oberyn strode into the room, with her nephew and daughter following closely.

“Ash!” Oberyn drawled jovially. “So kind of you to come out and greet me!”

“It was far too comfortable in here,” Ashara shrugged, sounding far calmer than she felt, “even your presence wasn’t enough to motivate me.”

“Well,” Oberyn gasped, hand to his chest, “I prefer your silver star to you anyway. At least she appreciates me.”

“ _Humours_ you, Oberyn, she _humours_ you. She’s far too sweet a girl to just ignore you as anyone else would.”

“Oh that’s not true,” Oberyn denied, turning to Dany. “Is it, Dany?”

Dany’s eyes widened, and she threw her open hands up, clearly wanting to remain neutral in their little squabble. Her helpless look drew a laugh out of her, just as she always did. After being convinced that she would never find joy in her life again, Rhaella in her dying breath had blessed her with enough of it to last her a lifetime. Even with the severity of the impeding situation, laughing came as easy as breathing when her Stormborn was involved.

“Hmph, coward,” Oberyn muttered. “Well, let’s not distract ourselves further. I assume there’s an important reason for all this Ash. Even Edric and Dany are unawares from my understanding.”

The weight in her stomach threatened to return, but she didn’t allow it to remain for too long. She had to approach the subject carefully and succinctly – nerves wouldn’t make her think any clearly, nor would they make Oberyn any easier to handle.

Trying not to let her inner turmoil show on her face, Ashara asked them all to sit down at the table in the centre of the solar while she stood at the end. Light shone over her through the solar window, which only served to further focus their attention on her. She had practised this again and again since she had summoned him, yet now the time had come her delicately chosen words had left her. In the end, all she could do was speak her mind, and pray to the gods she wouldn’t ruin their friendship in the process.

“Before I start, Oberyn,” Ashara started, “I want you to listen to everything I have to say, please. And as for you two,” she said, looking at Dany and Edric who sat opposite Oberyn, “you need to listen, too. ‘Tis true I could have spoken to you earlier, but Oberyn deserved to hear first. Not to mention, the truth of things will be revealed in one way or another. The air is changing.”

The three of them sat at the table shared a brief glance at each other before turning their eyes back to her. Oberyn nodded in silence and gestured for her to continue.

 _This is it,_ Ashara thought. _Now or never._

“It’s about the rebellion, Oberyn. There are things you should know.”

Oberyn’s face darkened in an instant, any humour left on his face non-existent. “Go on.”

Ashara took a bracing breath and began slowly pacing, gathering her thoughts.

“As we were told, the story goes that Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark, while Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark were murdered by the Mad King, Aerys. Their actions split the country in two and led to a war that killed nearly every Targaryen – Rhaegar, Aerys…your niece and nephew, along with—” she trailed off. Oberyn’s jaw was clenched tight as a vice, but he still did not speak.

“Aerys’ younger son Viserys fled to Essos, presumably with the three knights of his father’s Kingsguard who remained unaccounted for, while Queen Rhaella…she died on Dragonstone birthing a stillborn child,” she lied. The words lashed her like barbed whips. The wave of shame was such that it burned for her to meet Dany’s violet eyes. But the promise she had made to Rhaella echoed in her ears every time the urge to tell her the truth had gripped her too strongly.

_If Robert finds out who she is he’ll kill her. Her identity must be kept secret, even from her._

She knew she had no choice, and she knew she was keeping her promise. But lying to her so flagrantly never got easier.

“Lyanna was never found. As far as most of Westeros is concerned, she died a hostage.”

“Yes, and now Robert Baratheon hunts for Viserys, who is a threat to his throne,” Oberyn supplied.

“No.”

Oberyn’s brows furrowed. “No?”

“No. Hunting down the Mad King’s son for the benefit of the realm is simply the story the Crown has been paddling to the masses in order to cover up the truth of the situation.”

“Which would be?”

“That Viserys is already dead.”

Oberyn’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth agape.

“He’s dead?”

“I suspect so, yes. Likely for years now.”

Oberyn shook his head. “I had planned to forge a marriage pact between him and Arianne, but if this is true then…”

Dany, who had been silently listening to her mother along with Edric, decided to speak then. “How can you be sure? If I’m not mistaken the King still relays that tale to the realm.”

“This brings me into what I was here to tell you all. Something I have kept to myself since the war 17 years ago.”

When they remained quiet, Ashara began. “Not long after King’s Landing was sacked, Lord Eddard Stark came to Starfall. He had gone to a tower along the Prince’s Pass first, having been told that Lyanna was last seen there. As you can imagine, he didn’t find her there. What he _did_ find, however, was a letter written by his sister that could only be a threat aimed at Rhaegar’s enemies. It was obviously left there in the hopes that it would be found and read.” Ashara paused, letting it sink in. “You realise what this means, don’t you?”

Edric’s eyes looked like they were about to fall out of their sockets. “Lyanna Stark is alive somewhere?”

“More than just that, Ned.” Dany replied, mind racing. “It sounds as though Lyanna was hardly Rhaegar’s unwilful prisoner.  What did the letter say?”

“It was only a single line. It said, ‘ _Winter is Coming, with Fire and Blood’_. A rather hard thing to forget.”

Dany nodded and stroked her chin thoughtfully, though the disbelief in her eyes was plain to see. “To use House Targaryen’s words with her own house’s that way is a bold statement. So Lyanna loved him? And the feeling was mutual?”

Oberyn did not utter a word, eyes blankly focused somewhere else. Ashara could feel the anger in the tension he held himself with. Frankly, whether Rhaegar left with Lyanna as a kidnapper or a man in love made no difference to the fact that Rhaegar had set aside his sister and left her and her children vulnerable when he did so.

 _The worst of it is still to come_ , Ashara knew.

“Yes, Dany. That’s what I believe. Eddard had also come to Starfall to ask for my brother Arthur’s whereabouts. He was missing from the Battle of the Trident, nor was he at the tower Eddard had rode to. Everyone assumed that he must have been with Viserys when he escaped, but Lord Stark had come close to deducing the truth of the matter, though he never acted on it since it was apparent Lyanna did not want to be found. He concluded that wherever Lyanna was, Arthur and likely the other missing members of Aerys’ Kingsguard would be with her,” Ashara explained.

“Rhaella told me the truth of the matter when I met with her at Dragonstone. Viserys was actually escorted east solely by Ser Willem Darry, the master-of-arms of the Red Keep at the time, as well as a small number of loyal retainers.”

Dany frowned. “I don’t understand how that points to Viserys already being dead, Mother.”

“What do you know about the Kingsguard?”

It was Edric who replied. “Simple, they protect their rightful king or queen.”

“Exactly. And yet Lyanna and the Kingsguard had fled Westeros long before Viserys and Ser Willem left Dragonstone.”

“But Viserys would have been rightful king by then, wouldn’t he?” Edric asked. “With every other Targaryen save him and Queen Rhaella dead, the crown would pass down to him. And if so, wouldn’t it have been the Kingsguard’s duty to find and protect him?”

“But what if he _wasn’t_ next in line?” Dany deduced. _Clever girl,_ Ashara though. “What if they did not leave to protect him because their loyalties were with another heir?”

Their train of thought was brought to a grinding halt when Oberyn slammed his fist into the hardwood table. Ashara looked over to see Oberyn’s eyes burning into her own. She could feel the rage bubbling over him like molten lava.

“Surely you jest, Ash,” Oberyn said, voice low and dangerous. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that Lyanna was with child before Rhaegar died.”

“Yes, I do,” Ashara replied evenly. “And that’s why Lyanna and the Kingsguard fled the country. To protect their rightful Crown Prince.”

“And yet that was Aegon, not the Stark girl’s spawn,” Oberyn growled slowly. “Where were _they_ when Elia and their _rightful Crown Prince_ were being torn apart by the Lannister dogs?”

“I don’t know, I can’t speak for them. Whatever the reason was, they made their choice. And thus I can only assume that Lyanna and Rhaegar’s child is out there somewhere, likely still with the Kingsguard sworn to them.”

“And this relates back to Viserys being dead, how?” Oberyn asked.

“We’ve only ever heard of the one Targaryen boy and the rebel knights of the old order who follow him in his exile. And yet I know with certainty that my brother and his brothers-in-arms were never with Viserys in the first place,” Ashara answered. “If nothing else, Robert knew of Viserys and knew he was unaccounted for. Assassins would have surely been sent for him, to the only place he could really flee to – Pentos, the closest Free City to Dragonstone.

“Not long after Viserys left Dragonstone, Westeros suffered its worst storm in living memory.”

“Right,” Dany responded. “The day I was born.”

Ashara only nodded, not trusting her voice at that moment. “The chances of Viserys being the one to survive with only an elderly knight to call protector were very slim, especially as his movements were the easiest to telegraph. Not to mention his appearance being an undoubtable indicator of his noble heritage would only serve to make him more identifiable.

“Other than Oswell with his bat helm, Arthur is easily the most recognisable of the missing knights. No disguise he dons would hide the splendour of House Dayne’s greatsword Dawn. And if there is any Targaryen boy in exile that he is following, it would be Rhaegar’s last living child.”

Ashara paused, allowing them to sit in tense silence and come to terms with the new reality.

In the end, it was Edric who broke the silence. “Why would the king lie and say that it was Viserys they’ve been pursuing?”

“Robert is a petty man, Edric,” Oberyn replied. “He does not want to be known throughout the realm as a cuckold, spurned by his beloved betrothed. His ego would not survive it.

“Revealing the truth would also mean admitting that his rebellion was built on a lie,” Oberyn continued. “Even 17 years later his reign isn’t secure. The realm was broken by the war he waged, and nearly an entire generation of men were killed in the onslaught. How turbulent would things become for him if the people were to learn of this?”

Edric swallowed hard, truly understanding the power this information held.

“Why did you sit on this for all this time, Mother?” Dany inquired. “And what does Oberyn have to do with it?”

Oberyn’s gaze snapped to Ashara at this, eyes narrowing. “There is still something you withhold from me, Ash?”

 _And so it begins,_ Ashara thought ruefully.

Taking a deep breath, Ashara walked towards the stand of shelves in the top left hand corner of her solar and pulled out a scroll wedged between two books at the bottom. She walked over to Oberyn and handed it to him. The seal was already broken.

Oberyn looked at Ashara questioningly before unfurling the parchment and reading it.

“ _I’ll be home soon_?” Oberyn questioned, still confused. “This is all it says.”

“That’s my brother’s cursive. I received it not much longer than a moon ago.”

Understanding washed over Oberyn’s face.

“They’re returning to Westeros soon, Oberyn. With Dragonstone occupied by Stannis Baratheon, they’re likely to return here. Arthur,” Ashara began, unconsciously darting her eyes to Dany, “and the last Targaryen.”

 _Remember who you do this for,_ she repeated to herself, steeling herself.

“They will doubtless be preparing to wage war for the crown. And Oberyn…”

“Don’t,” he warned. A vein in his temple was pulsing. “Don’t even dare to—”

“All I ask Oberyn is that you see them yourself,” Ashara pleaded. “Let them explain to you—”

“ **EXPLAIN WHAT?** ” Oberyn boomed, bolting up to stand. Ashara flinched but maintained eye contact. Dany and Edric recoiled in their seats, experiencing a side of Oberyn they had never seen before.

Oberyn stalked towards her slowly, tranquil fury flashing in his dark eyes. She had awoken the viper in earnest, she knew.

“Tell me, Ashara” Oberyn began, seething. “How could Lyanna possibly explain herself for the part she played in the rebellion? For the lives her actions ruined? How will she explain her part in dishonouring and shaming my sister? For my late uncle Lewyn who died fighting a war she and Rhaegar started?”

He was standing before her now, Dany and Edric watching with bated breath. It took all of Ashara’s resolve not to step backwards. She gripped the backrest of the chair closest to her, anchoring herself in place. She would not relent now. She could not.

_Remember who you do this for._

“What of your brother and his comrades, who were accomplice to Rhaegar and Lyanna’s actions? Who stood watch over Lyanna’s child instead of Elia’s own? How will _they_ explain themselves, I wonder?” Each word dripped with venom. Ashara knew her next words would mean everything.

“Can you agree with me Oberyn, that a child is not guilty for the sins of their fathers?”

Oberyn’s eyes twitched almost indeterminably. “Yes. I can.”

Ashara nodded. “Lyanna’s sins are hers. As were Rhaegar’s. But let us not scorn their child for their actions. Did you not say that you would support Viserys’ claim for the throne, despite his father’s madness? Was Aerys not responsible for chaining Elia and her children to King’s Landing to begin with?”

Oberyn’s jaw tightened, but otherwise said nothing.

Ashara capitalized on his silence. “Robert, the man who pardoned the crimes against your sister and her children, sits the Throne. Tywin Lannister, the man who _ordered_ the deaths of your sister and her children, is the true power behind it. You and your brother Doran have been waiting long and hard for the opportunity to have them brought low, Oberyn. And regardless of how you feel about it, you will likely not get a better chance than this.”

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Oberyn broke their stare-down. Ashara released a heavy breath she wasn’t even aware she was holding.

“Your brother and his…liege,” Oberyn muttered. “You say they will be landing in Dorne, yes?”

“Yes. They can’t land on Dragonstone while Stannis remains there. The second alternative is White Harbour, from Braavos. But I imagine they are unsure of where the North stands with Robert Baratheon, and furthermore, Lyanna Stark would be far too recognisable there – it’s too much of a risk.”

“And so their best alternative is through the Stepstones and onto the Broken Arm of Dorne,” Oberyn concluded. He walked to the window of her solar, staring out into the distance. She knew he was coming to a decision.

“Please be well aware, Ash, that House Martell will likely not support Lyanna’s child in their bid for the throne,” Oberyn said evenly. “The decision lies with my elder brother Doran.”

Ashara nodded, even though she knew he would not see it.

“What we will instead do, is summon them to Sunspear. No, perhaps the Water Gardens would be better. I doubt the people of the capital would appreciate the Stark girl and her son in their presence, and there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t act out violently.”

Oberyn turned to Ashara then. “We shall make it a private affair. They will be escorted to the Gardens, before my brother and I. They will explain themselves, in copious detail, and they will beg for our forgiveness. And _only_ if their explanations are sufficient – which I doubt they will be – will we hear out this prospective king.

“House Martell has kept faith with House Targaryen since the days of Daeron the Good. We do not wish to break faith now, if it can be salvaged. That is the only reason I am even entertaining this, and that is the best that they can hope for from us.”

Ashara felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. The chances of things going well were dreadfully slim, but she had at least opened a path for them, however slight the opening. Now it was up to Arthur and his king to get their foot in the door.

“Thank you, Oberyn.”

Oberyn nodded, his face pensive. Someone cleared their throat behind them, with Dany standing to walk to the door.

“Well, emotions have been running high, so I will have food and drink delivered here” Dany declared before leaving the solar.

Edric stood up to follow her lead. “I have to go and oversee the keep. Will the two of you be alright by yourselves?” Edric asked, looking between the two.

“Oh don’t be silly Edric,” Oberyn chided, a light air of humour returning to his voice. “Unless I’m mistaken, _you’re_ the child to be watched over here.”

Edric folded his arms and raised his chin defiantly. “Child in age I may be, but I am still Lord Dayne.”

Pride swelled in her chest for her nephew. _If only you could see him now, Ulrick. See the man your son is growing into._

When she looked to Oberyn, she saw him slowly nodding with a smirk and the same look of approval on his face.

“Yes,” he praised. “Yes you are.”

Edric’s face began to flush under their attentions, and he bowed to Oberyn and turned to leave before the prince could mock him for it.

Oberyn and Ashara turned to each other then, looking at one another in silent apology before meeting halfway and embracing tightly.

“Can I ask you something, Ash?” Oberyn asked, still hugging her.

“Of course.”

“Why do you care so much?” Oberyn asked. “I understand that your brother means a great deal to you, but why go to these lengths for the sake of some boy you’ve never met?”

Reasons spun through Ashara’s mind. Personal reasons. Duty-bound reasons.

_So that Dany may come to know her nephew, the last of her family._

_So that one day, Dany may be safe enough for me to finally be completely honest with her, even if she never forgives me for it._

_So that my brother may come home where he belongs, untarnished and shameless._

_So that Eddard might see the sister he’s been looking for the last 17 years._

_Because Rhaella would do the same._

In the end, she settled for the one that hit closest to home for them both.

“Elia was my friend, Oberyn. My closest friend. She didn’t deserve what happened to her – nobody does. What she _does_ deserve is justice.” Ashara pulled back to look him in the eyes. “We remove the stags and lions from power, and we make sure there’s nothing left of Gregor Clegane once we’re done with him. That, Oberyn, will be her retribution.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that normally by this point of the timeline Edric's father (I call him Ulrick here) would have been dead for longer than two years and Edric would be squiring for Beric Dondarrion, but this is an AU so who cares lmao.
> 
> Next will be Jon/Aegon and Ned Stark! Also realise I need a pair of eyes in King's Landing every once in a while too - think I know who the POV for that will be~


	4. AEGON II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made for Aegon's impeding journey to Westeros. Aegon and Arthur have a talk.

****

 

**AEGON TARGARYEN**

“Well met this eventide, everyone!”

Aegon nodded in deference and attempted to give to the Magister what he thought was a polite smile, though he was sure that it was more like a grimace. Pretending to tolerate Illyrio’s company was a mummery he had kept up for over a year – the least he thought he could do for Illyrio after he put a roof over their heads. But the closer it came to them finally setting sail to Westeros, the more exhausting it became indulging in him.

The stench of his flesh that was poorly masked by heavy perfumes. The countless jewels and finery that adorned his obese figure from top to bottom. From the fork of his oily beard to the smug arrogance that tainted his every word. His ‘servants’ that were slaves in all but name. Aegon could find no shortage of reasons to dislike the man.

And they had promised him a position as master of coin when he took back the throne. Aegon knew that Illyrio was aware of their true feelings towards him, but why would he care? As far as he was concerned, they were nothing but a means to an end; true friends weren’t needed in business.

Aegon knew they were beyond the point where they could regret their decisions. All he could promise himself was that he’d try to have him replaced at the earliest convenience, whenever that was.

They gathered around a fine oak table in the manse’s main lounge room, with wine and goblets sat and waiting for each of them already. Ser Gerold was sat there with what Aegon could presume was a map rolled up in one hand. His smile was kind and warmed his naturally stern countenance.

Of all the Kingsguard, Gerold Hightower was the oldest. His short-cut, dark brown hair was streaked abundantly with the white hairs of age, and wrinkles framed his features. Countless flickers of grey hair could be found in his grown-out beard, which only added to his increasingly grandfatherly appearance.

Despite his advanced age, he could not be underestimated. He was called The White Bull for a reason, and while he would be the first to tell you that his body just didn’t move around like it used to, he was still more than capable of holding his own against his fellow brothers-in-arms. And beyond his fighting prowess, he also brought wisdom and knowledge with his years. He was a well-rounded man who was slow to judge others and rigidly loyal, though his seniority seemed to be something of a sore spot for him, as Oswell could attest to when he called him a ‘sack of bones with a good sword arm’. It took both Aegon and Arthur to hold him back, then.

“My King,” Gerold greeted, voice deep and slightly gravelly. “Is everyone ready to start?”

“Seems so,” Aegon confirmed. At that, Gerold unfurled the map flat on the table for them to see.

“So,” Lyanna started, “where do we begin?”

“I suppose a summary of our plan is as good a place to start as any,” Arthur replied. “Aegon?”

He nodded. He would be king one day soon, hopefully. He needed to prove that he knew what he was doing, what he was aiming for and how he would go about doing so.

“We’re here—” Aegon began, right index finger on a point on the map, “—in Pentos. We figured that our best course of travel would be to travel to Tyrosh and sail through the Stepstones and onto Dornish soil. If Illyrio’s information from Varys is to be believed, Stannis Baratheon and his forces currently occupy Dragonstone. We can’t risk any altercations with him, else he alarms the capital of our arrival.”

“Right,” his mother agreed. “And as much as I’d love for us to go to Braavos and sail to White Harbour, Robert has good relations with the North as far as we know. It wouldn’t be safe for us.”

“Well I don’t know about that,” Illyrio inserted, filling his goblet with wine.

“Why?” she asked, confused.

“Well,” Illyrio drawled pensively, “while I cannot speak for the North as a whole, as far as I am aware, your former betrothed and your elder brother the Lord Stark have scarcely spoken to one another in years. They are not on good terms.”

“Truly?” Lyanna’s eyes were wide. “Do you think he knows that Robert is pursuing my son and I?”

“Mm, I doubt that,” Oswell answered, gulping down a cup in one go before re-filling it. “He already went to war for you once, Lyanna. He’d surely do it again if he knew the truth of it, especially with his nephew at Robert’s knifepoint too.”

His mother’s eyes were hopeful, but she snuffed it out in favour of pragmatism. “That may be, but I’m not entirely ready to bring them into the fold – not just yet. The North suffered grievously during the rebellion. I’d like for our position to be stronger before I drag my family and Northern brethren into more bloodshed.”

She paused before questioning Illyrio further. “Why then, Illyrio, are Robert and Ned not on speaking terms anymore? We know of Robert’s current reputation as a whoremongering drunkard who pisses away the Crown’s coin, but as far as my memory serves he’s always been that way. There must be more to it.”

“You would be correct,” Illyrio replied, slowly sipping from his goblet. “See, after Robert pardoned Tywin Lannister for his deplorable act of killing Elia Martell and her children, Lord Stark was disgusted and took it upon himself to distance himself from the then-newly appointed king.”

Aegon could see Lyanna withholding a smile. His mother always spoke of his uncle Ned with love and pride in her voice, claiming he was one of the best men she knew.

“Aye, that sounds like him. He would never condone the slaughter of women and children,” Lyanna said softly, before mumbling “though I wish he were a better judge of character.”

“Well in any case,” Arthur said, “Dragonstone and White Harbour aren’t options, which leaves us the eastern coast of Dorne. I sent a brief letter by raven to my sister in Starfall about a moon ago. Hopefully she’ll be able to arrange something in the meantime.”

“My Queen,” Gerold began, worry accentuating his age lines, “are you sure Dorne would be the best place to start? We may have the support of House Dayne, yes, but ultimately, they are bannermen of House Martell. They remember her not only as a woman unjustly murdered, but a woman scorned by the actions of you and Rhaegar. Will they give you the chance to explain the truth of the situation?”

Lyanna was quiet for a long while before answering. “Our best chance here is in trusting Arthur’s sister to at least get us the opportunity.”

“She will,” Arthur spoke with conviction. “I’m sure of it. She’s as headstrong as they come.”

Gerold nodded, though Aegon could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced. Relations between the Reach and Dorne had always been strained to say the least, Gerold had told him once. They naturally had low opinions of one another. Gerold’s years in exile with Arthur had helped iron out each other’s biases, but Arthur was only one man. Gerold could trust Arthur with his life, Aegon was sure, but the same could not be said for the rest of Dorne.

Regardless, Aegon moved on. “We have to think about who else outside of House Martell we can count on for support.”

“Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell, Greyjoy, Arryn, Tully,” Gerold listed. “I think it goes without saying that the first two can be excluded.”

“When the time comes, we can count on House Stark,” Lyanna supplied. “Ned could never forgive Robert for attempting to kill me and Aegon, and by the sounds of it the peace between them is already fragile. As for the Northerners, they will fight for their own and Aegon’s as much wolf as he is dragon. Not to mention that the opportunity to have someone with the blood of the North sit the throne might be favourable for them.”

“If that is the case,” Illyrio cut in, swirling the Arbor Gold in his goblet, “you may be able to draw the Tullys to your side too. Your brother Lord Stark is married to Catelyn of House Tully; the bonds of marriage may be enough to convince them. The Arryns too, what with Lysa Tully being married to Jon Arryn, Lord Stark’s foster father.”

“There is a lot that could go wrong in that regard actually,” Arthur said, hand in his hair. “For one, Jon Arryn is Robert’s foster father too – more than that, he’s his _Hand_ , correct?” Illyrio nodded in confirmation. “There’s also the issue of what House Tully’s punishment will be, and that will concern both the Arryns and the Starks.”

“Punishment?” Lyanna asked.

“Aye,” Aegon replied. “House Tully only has its standing as a Great House because of my ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, yet despite the debt they owe to House Targaryen they leapt at the opportunity to overthrow them. Unlike the Starks, Arryns or even the Baratheons, the Tullys had no reason to oppose us besides throwing in their lot with the winning side. No, I’ll have to be sure to put them in their place,” he asserted.

“In what way?” Oswell asked, curious.

“I’ll have to strip them of their position as Lords Paramount of the Trident. Bestow the title to a worthier and more loyal riverlands house. They need to understand that what is given can be taken away.”

“With all that in mind, My Queen, it may not be as easy as you think to bring the Starks to the fold, especially with a Tully girl being your good-sister,” Gerold concluded.

His mother understandably looked conflicted. She did not want it to be a point of tension between her and her brother.

“I get that you don’t want to seem antagonistic towards your brother’s new family,” Aegon told his mother. He laid his hand on hers, trying to sap her anxiety away. “But it must be done, I mustn’t be weak. I do not aim to destroy House Tully, but there must be consequences for their actions.”

His mother gave a stiff nod and turned her hand to grip his. “I know son, I know. It will make things more difficult, especially with the Arryns who never held much love for Targaryens, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Thank you, mother,” Aegon said with a soft smile before turning back to the map. “So the Starks are a possible ally and the Tullys, Arryns and Martells could go any which way, which leaves the Greyjoys and the Tyrells.”

“The Greyjoys may as well not even be considered,” Gerold sneered. “They’re only good for building ships, pillaging and raping. You won’t subjugate them in any other way than brute force.”

He turned his eyes to the Reach, and his eyes softened ever so slightly at looking down on his home. Aegon swore silently, for what may have been the thousandth time since they fled into exile, that he would return him there someday.

“The Tyrells fought for the Targaryens in the rebellion, so that’s a comfort. Mace Tyrell is my nephew’s good-son, but from what I remember of him, he was an overambitious oaf with a rather bloated sense of self-importance. He dreams of seeing a grandchild of his seed on the Iron Throne, so you can guess what he would want in return for their support…”

Aegon held back a sigh. _Of course he would._

“A marriage alliance.”

“ ** _No._** ”

The outburst caused everyone to turn their head to his mother. Her grey eyes were hard and piercing.

“Mother?”

“You will marry who you wish to marry.” Lyanna folded her arms, fierce and adamant in her demand. “I don’t care if it’s the easiest way to win alliances, Aegon. I was betrothed to a man I could never even stomach being wed to. Your father and Elia married each other as duty demanded of them and they were both _miserable_. Amicable, yes, but they were both free spirits who were unwillingly chained to one another, just as I was. Their friendship and their children were the only things that made their marriage bearable.

“There is little else worse than letting true love go. To meet the person you know you were fashioned for and be expected to relinquish them. I could not do it, and your father could not do it, but we were set on paths that were not our own and countless died the moment we strayed from them. Rhaegar’s poor mother was forced to marry a monster, even though he told me she had already been in love with another.”

Aegon swallowed hard. His mother spoke of the rebellion as little as she could. But they always hung over her like a sceptre, ready to jump to the forefront of her mind at any time. This was the first time that she had spoken of it so…passionately.

“I know you wish to unite the people. I know you wish to do good by them. But I also know that in your seven-and-ten name days you have barely had to chance to truly live for yourself. Mayhaps you’ll find her tomorrow. Or in the next moon, or ten years from now. But you will _know_ when it comes, and if you decide to marry yourself off to someone who is simply convenient, I promise that you will rue the day you did not _wait_. Do not marry solely for politics, son. I’m begging you.”

He didn’t know what to say. On one hand, if he could marry a Tyrell for the Reach it would make things significantly simpler. The Tyrells had the wealth, the armies, the ships and the grain he needed. The other houses’ potential allegiances were tenuous at best; the Tyrells were likely the house they could most easily gain the support of.

And yet he couldn’t ignore his mother’s words. He couldn’t imagine spending his life with someone he couldn’t be happy with. And he wasn’t sure he would survive watching the person he loved slip from his fingers. He may not know of that kind of love, but he knows how his mother felt for his father, and how far they were willing to go to never belong to anyone else but each other.

He would be a fool to underestimate it.

Yet he still had to prod her a bit more before he could promise her without any reluctance.

“I’m sure there are arranged marriages that have turned into love later on,” he said.

It was Arthur who answered this time. “Of course there have been. But betrothing first and courting later is, in my opinion, a rather foolish way of doing things, especially when you’re coaxed with the promise of a military alliance. If you’re lucky, you’ll be happy with the one you are to wed anyway. _If you’re lucky._ But in political marriages where all they need is a pair of nether parts that cook up an heir and strengthen families, happiness can be rare. I would know, I saw it everywhere during my service.”

“It may be common among noble houses but frankly, it’s just a prettier way of selling people,” Oswell added. He didn’t even bother hiding the pointed glare he gave Illyrio, who seemed to tense up slightly once he made eye contact with him. “Not wishing to be sold off to any old wench is part of the reason why I joined the Kingsguard.”

“Whatever decision you make, my King, be sure that you do not regret it,” Gerold advised. “You have far too much of your life ahead of you to make a lifelong commitment you regret. The vows of love in marriage mean something true and genuine to those who aren’t highborn, and they meant something to your parents. Myself, and everyone else I’m sure, would want that to be the same for you, when your own time comes.”

Aegon wasn’t sure why, but he felt a surge of affection for all of them at that. While a miniscule, childish part of him didn’t appreciate them staging an intervention on him, it was utterly dwarfed by the feeling of being truly cared for – that they cared more for his happiness than for his status. It was things like these that made Aegon utterly devoted to paying them back and exceeding their expectations.

He turned back to his mother, whose worried eyes were boring into him. A grin overtook him features.

“I promise, mother,” Aegon assured her. “I promise I will only marry who I choose to marry.”

“Whom your _heart_ chooses to marry,” Lyanna stressed. “I don’t want you marrying for convenience on a technicality.”

“Aye, whomever my heart chooses to marry,” Aegon chuckled.

His mother heaved out a sigh, visibly lighter in spirit than she was when they came in. Aegon had a feeling she had worried about that long before it was brought up.

 _Then again_ , he thought, _after what she suffered, how couldn’t she?_

“Well then,” Illyrio started with a clap of his hands, “shall we move on?”

* * *

The rest of the meeting was simply for agreeing on the mercenary company they would buy the services of. It was never going to be anything but a unanimous decision; the Golden Company was the only true choice there was. They had never broken a contract – their word was ‘as good as gold’, as they say – and they were the most powerful mercenary army in Essos, with 10,000 trained men, several thousand horses and even war elephants in their ranks. If he wanted a chance of taking Westeros, he knew he couldn’t hold back. Illyrio would provide the gold to purchase them, and he would get his place in the small council. It was his price to pay for the army he needed – a smaller one than it necessarily could have been, sure, but a price nonetheless.

Aegon had gone to bed with his mind swirling. Of what was to come, of what needed to be done, of what he’d have to sacrifice or compromise on. Because while his ‘family’ may have put their collective foot down on the issue of marriage, he knew that it would mean he had to buy allegiance in other ways. And in what ways were there? A place on his small council? A place at his Kingsguard? What could secure loyalty better, besides sheer power? Despite his namesake, he was no Aegon the Conqueror. He certainly had no dragons. He would dream of them at times, riding atop a great emerald beast with eyes of burnished bronze, like the dragonlords of Old Valyria. He shouted a command with vigour, though what it was he commanded remained muffled to his ears, and the dragon would shroud the land in a brilliant verdant fire that entranced him and pulled him further into slumber’s sweet darkness.

But his dreams were just that, and a good sword arm was all he had to his name.

He woke up at the crack of dawn with tints of green in his blurry vision, quickly dressing up and heading to the manse’s backyard, knowing who he would find there. In their 17 years of being in constant transit, he was glad that there were constants he was sure would never change.

Arthur was sitting at the bench, honing Dawn with a whetstone as though he didn’t do so just the night before. ‘ _It’s for the lustre!’,_ he would always insist, but Aegon was sure that he simply did it because he had nothing better to do other than sparring.

“Good morn, Arthur,” Aegon greeted.

Arthur looked at him and smiled. “Morning, Aegon.”

A part of Aegon was always taken aback from the warmth in Arthur’s gaze whenever he looked on him. It was like his mother’s. He wondered if his late father would have looked upon him the same way too, despite the melancholy that haunted him.

“You said yesterday you wanted to talk to me yes?”

“Yes, I was waiting for you. Sit by me,” Arthur requested, patting the spot next to him.

When Aegon sat down, Arthur began. “All I really wanted to ask was…if you were well.”

“Well?” Aegon asked. “I feel healthy, if that’s what you meant.”

“No, I mean in here,” Arthur clarified, tapping his temple. “How are you handling everything?

Aegon was about to dismiss it with another empty assurance that he was fine, that while he was a bit stressed about it all he could handle it. But looking into his sworn knight’s eyes, and seeing the worry and understanding swimming in the purple of their depths, made him realise that this was just as much for Arthur’s own peace of mind as his own.

So Aegon took his time, and thought long and hard about everything, while Arthur gave him the time to unburden himself.

He unblocked the dam entirely, having underestimated how much inner conflict he had internalised. And instead of the reasonably turbulent stream he had expected, he was hit with an eruption of negativity instead. Far quicker than he was prepared for, every fear, every worry and every insecurity engulfed and drowned him. He was in the eye of a vicious whirlpool, whipped and wringed by the force of his doubts.

_WhatifI’mnotgoodenough?WhatifI’mthelastthingthepeopleneedorwant?Whatifmyfamilydies?Becauseofme?Becauseofmymistakes?Ican’tdothisalone!Whatdoesthatmakemethen?Whatif—_

His vision had nearly blacked out and the world sounded as though it was underwater, his heartbeat muffled and deafening in his ears. As he sank deeper and deeper into the abyss, he heard a voice calling out to him. Arthur? Or perhaps it was his father calling him to join him wherever he was.

 _Perhaps they’re one in the same_ , Aegon thought, gripping onto the voice like it was his only way out, and letting him drag him back above the surface.

“AEGON!” Arthur exclaimed. He heard it loud and clear this time. Arthur was knelt before him, gripping his shoulders hard. Aegon didn’t realise he was hyperventilating until Arthur urged him to slow his breathing.

He had thrown himself headlong into a panic attack, in front of Arthur, no less, someone who was relying on him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more pathetic or less prepared for what was ahead. His eyes stung with unshed tears – he hated how utterly _inadequate_ he felt. When did his boldness leave him? Was it never there?

Arthur could see him sinking back into the recesses of his own mind and shook him back into reality.

“Aegon. Look at me. Stay with me.”

Aegon obliged, gazing right at him. His heart lurched painfully in his chest when he realised Arthur’s eyes shimmered with tears. All because of him.

 _Weak_ , Aegon silently berated himself. _I’m too weak_.

“I’m sorry,” Aegon muttered, “I should not have—”

“If you dare apologise I swear to every god there is that I’ll throw you into the sea,” Arthur snapped. “Please, talk to me.”

Aegon looked to the sky and took a deep breath, trying to tame the unwieldly beast he had unleashed from the darkest confines of his heart.

“I’m scared, Arthur,” Aegon confessed, his voice breaking. He felt even younger than his 17 years. “I’m terrified.”

Arthur nodded, trying to blink his tears away. “I know. You would never admit it but I knew. So did your mother. You would have to be a madman like your grandfather to not be scared.”

“Where do I begin, Arthur? I feel like there’s a myriad of obstacles we’re faced with and we’re starting from nothing. My ancestor conquered the Seven Kingdoms but he had three dragons and I have none, I feel as though the people of Westeros would sooner see me dead than to allow me to be their king—”

“Slow down, Aegon. You need to slow down,” Arthur said in hushed tones, moving his grip from Aegon’s shoulders to his hands. “One thing at a time.”

 Arthur was right, he realised. He was trying to find solutions to every problem all at once, probably because of how close they finally were. A failure to find one solution quickly enough would lead into a failure for another, and then another, and another. The next thing Aegon knew, he was being crushed under an avalanche of questions with no answers. He couldn’t afford to let himself collapse under the weight of it all.

Aegon closed his eyes and fully calmed himself, tightening his hold on Arthur and feeling him tighten his hands in return. It kept him rooted in place, and stopped his mind from running away again. It was what he desperately needed.

“As king of Westeros,” Aegon began, his voice having regained a semblance of strength, “I have the lives of millions to account for. Men, women and children who will be looking to me for direction and inspiration, to make their lives better or at least more stable.”

“Your mistake, Aegon, is believing this is a burden you must carry by yourself – that these are all problems you have to deal with by yourself,” Arthur explained. “No ruler can do it all by themselves, none. Aegon the Conqueror had Orys Baratheon and his sisters, even Jaehaerys the Conciliator for all his wisdom often relied on his queen Alysanne, did he not? A good king will listen to his advisors and listen to his people. You may heed that advice or you may ignore it, if you believe it is for the best. But I trust you will try to make the best decisions you can, even if you stumble every now and again.”

“But how can you be sure I will make the best decisions for everyone?” he questioned. “Sometimes I think I’m nothing but the name I was born with. How do you know I’m what the people need, or even want?”

“Because I know you,” Arthur said with the same conviction he had heard him use on behalf of his sister. “You are one of a rare few who acknowledges the weight of the crown. You understand that you serve the people, not the other way around. And despite your fear of the power you would wield, you have the courage to grab the mantle of your father and ancestors in spite of it. You _care_ , and that already puts you above and beyond most men who have worn the title of king. So long as you keep the wishes of the people at the front of your mind, just as you have always done, you’re already pointing yourself in the right direction.”

In the back of his mind, the raging vortex that threatened to tear him asunder ebbed somewhat.

 _One step at a time,_ Aegon encouraged himself. _Until there are no more steps to take._

“I’ve never ruled,” Aegon told Arthur. “I’m afraid I’ll be inexperienced. To go from ruler of nothing to ruler of Seven Kingdoms…is that a jump I would be ready for?”

“You won’t become king overnight, Aegon,” Arthur reminded him. “It may take you a while, in fact. And in that while, you’ll be gradually gathering support, starting relatively small and building from there. And before you realise it, you’ll be leading great numbers of people and slowly but surely it will all become natural to you.

“Leading, from what I saw of your father, is something that can only be truly learnt from experience. You have the traits of a natural born leader, Aegon, even if you don’t believe it yourself.”

The storm ebbed.

“How will I conquer Seven Kingdoms? I’m no Aegon the Conqueror,” Aegon questioned, though he was glad to hear that the warble in his voice was finally gone.

“You’re right, you aren’t your ancestor,” Arthur agreed with a grin. “You’re different. You are your own man, and you have the potential to be even better. There is no point in comparing yourself to him. A king leads by his own example, not by the example of a man who has long since returned to the dirt. Be yourself, and know that that is good enough.”

Aegon nodded in understanding. While his fears had mostly dissipated, there was still one more thing he had to ask him. Though he was sure he knew the answer, it was the last elixir his mind needed for him to finally begin looking forward.

“Arthur,” he began, “you’ll stand by me, no matter what may come? If I need counsel, you’ll always be there?”

Arthur gave him a hearty chuckle. “I’d have left long ago if I had any intentions of leaving, my king. My sword and my counsel are yours. Now and always. We’re as good as family by now, aren’t we?”

And with that his mind was clear, the raging maelstrom abated to an ebbing current. He was still afraid of what was to come, of course, but he knew now it was nothing to be ashamed of. And he knew now that he wasn’t alone. He never was.

The sun had passed the horizon, and the weak rays of light framed the back of Arthur’s head like a halo.

 _Dawn_ , Aegon realised, looking down at the man who was his father in every way that mattered. As much as he respected his late father Rhaegar, in truth he was little else than a tale to him – a legacy he was born to inherit. Arthur was both his greatest defender and his closest friend, his undefeated champion and the man who raised him to be a good man, and not just a good king.

He was his right hand. In this, there was no doubt in his mind.

Aegon let his hands go and stood, bidding Arthur to stay kneeling. Arthur looked up to him, confused and expectant.

“Ser Arthur Dayne,” Aegon exulted, his voice stronger than it’s ever been, “I name you Hand of the King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a two-part chapter like the last two have been, but AeJon's chapter this time was hefty and important for him. Trying to shoehorn a Ned segment into it probably would have blunted the effect of Jon's, so he'll be next chapter instead, along with Dany.


	5. DANY II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany finds herself in a surreal predicament. Dany and Ashara have words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, another chapter where Ned's not in it! *throws table*
> 
> I am so sorry, I know people were looking forward to seeing Ned in this chapter and seeing how shit has changed for him, but Dany needed this. I swear to you that next chapter will be Ned-focused! You have my word!

****

 

**DANY SAND**

_All she could see was snow for leagues and leagues._

_The cold sunk into her flesh like knives, penetrating right down to the very bone. She stood barefoot in the powdery expanse, clothed in only her silk periwinkle nightgown. She might as well have not been wearing anything at all, for all the good it did._

_Dany’s conscience was not fully immersed in the world she had found herself in. No, Dany was oddly aware that she was dreaming, a stranger in a land of her own imagining. She was no stranger to vivid dreams, yet this dream was altogether different. Hypnotising, yet transient; profound yet elusive, as fluid as the Dornish sands running through her fingers – these were the kinds of dreams she encountered. But this felt so incredibly **real** , so tangible. Despite still having all her wits about her, she wasn’t sure she would be able to willingly wake herself up from this. She could move as she pleased, could scoop the snow up in her hands, feel its frosty texture in her palms. _

_But how could that be? In all her years, Dany had never seen snow. She had spent her life in the south, had been born in the long summer; she knew the feeling of the sun on her skin and the patter of raindrops on her face. But the snow? The winds of winter which whipped and assaulted her relentlessly? This was alien to her. Something she had never experienced in the waking world. And yet…_

_‘Perhaps this is the real world after all’_ , _she considered. She knew that she wouldn’t find anything simply standing there freezing to death, but she knew not where to start. There was nothing but grey, dreary landscape as far as the eye could see. But what she **did** know for sure was that the chill would claim her life if she did nothing. Could she die in a dream? She had no intention of finding out. _

_So she set her eyes to the distance ahead, pure white and featureless, and trudged forwards. Her bones were brittle ice in her limbs, yet she willed life and fire into them, trying to picture the Dornish deserts and their sweltering heat in her mind. Where she was headed, she did not know.  But she had made her choice, and she wouldn’t change her mind._

_‘If I look back I am lost’_ , _she thought resolutely._

_Dany did not know how long she walked for. Perhaps a minute, or an hour, or an eternity. Only the snowdrift floating down from the skies assured her that time was moving at all. But eventually, the view finally, finally changed._

_Off in the distance, Dany could see blue lights as bright as glimmering stars in the night sky._ Civilisation _, Dany hoped, praying she had struck lucky. With new fervour, Dany marched towards them, dragging her feet through the snows that were now reaching above her ankles. The cold she was feeling was indescribable, yet the thought of reaching her destination warmed her and reinvigorated her. She ignored how her feet screamed for respite, pushing though the sting of what she was sure to be frostbite._

_As she got ever closer, the figures the blue lights belonged to slowly but surely began to come into focus. No longer shapeless, they gained definition and clarity from Dany’s perspective._

_And the more she could make out, the more she began to wish that she had just stayed in the place she ended up in._

_Bones, bones, bones. Rotting muscle and torn sinew and shredded skin. Blue lights that were once a lighthouse to safety for her were now heralders of death, burning with unnatural malice and piercing like pointed icicles. Never had Dany been so repulsed._

_She was repulsed, yet she could not move. So frozen with fear she had been rendered. There was something so fundamentally wrong with the sight before her, this legion of wraiths whose ranks stretched endlessly. Their eyes were all focused on her, trapping her in a binding spell from which she could not escape from. From within their numbers, dozens of beings armoured in ice with the same haunting blue eyes emerged up front. They were mounted on creatures that looked like spiders, but couldn’t truly be. No spider could ever be so big, standing the size of horses. It was the stuff of nightmares and stories that wet nurses tell to frighten children. The mist that followed them skulked forward and embraced her like death’s paramour. Her blood had ceased to flow._

_And far too suddenly, as quickly as the snap of one’s fingers, they began charging forward, right towards her._

_Dany couldn’t even scream. She turned around in an attempt to fruitlessly run away, only to find the dead closing in on her from there too. When had they…?_

_She had no time to contemplate how before she came to the horrifying realisation she had been surrounded on all sides. Death’s fatal grasp was coming to clutch her like murderous hands strangling someone at the neck, and there was nothing she could do but watch as it neared._

_Even as she breathed heavily, gasping for air that barely came and stung her lungs when it did, she would not scramble pitifully for a way out that would not come. If she was to meet her end here, she would face it head-on. Perhaps not unflinchingly, but with grim acceptance. With all the pride and posture that she learned from her lady mother. She looked up at the grey vastness above her and closed her eyes, gathering all her inner strength, and sent a wordless prayer to the sky._

_She was answered with a titanic roar from the heavens. All around her, the dead halted in their pursuit, and turned their eyes skywards. The sky darkened even further, and for a second Dany thought that another army of corpses would fall from above and bring her world to an end. Another guttural roar sounded louder than the first and, if it was even possible, Dany’s heart pounded all the harder against her chest._

_The owner of the voice descended through the clouds, and it was all Dany could do to not drop to her knees._

_It could only be described as a winged shadow whose wingspan blanketed the lands below it in miles of darkness. Its figure was shrouded in a coat of inky blackness that made it impossible to know what it was. All she could see though its murky veil were its red eyes which glowed like cut rubies in firelight. She was enraptured, had nearly forgotten the sheer terror she felt only moments before._

_The beast let out a final resounding bellow, before opening its great maw and raining torrents of black flame on the horde of revenants. The fire exploded on contact, painting the bleak landscape with colourful scarlet eruptions. Dany watched as it served the army of the dead doomsday of its own devising, mouth agape in amazement as they melted like dew and dissolved into nothing by the thousands. It was absurd, that anything could hold this much power._

_It was all over nearly as soon as it began. By the end of it, all that surrounded Dany was smoke and scorched earth. Not a trace of the dead men remained. It was as though they were never there._

_The shadowed beast landed behind her with a ground-trembling thud as she surveyed the aftermath before her. She whipped around to find she was face-to-snout with it, its molten eyes staring straight at her, alight with intelligence. It exuded warmth from its very being, banishing the cursed chill that she had been plagued with. It had saved her – she owed this creature her life._

_“What in the world is it?” she wondered aloud.  “A dragon? A demon? A god?” She could not be sure, not while it remained obscured in such a way, a fire-breathing blot of ink._

_Dany found herself inexplicably drawn to it. Gods only knew why, but standing so close to it, her blood sang in its veins. It boiled, craving something desperately but not knowing what. Subconsciously, without even thinking about it, she reached out to touch the beast’s snout, her hand delving into the black veil and onto the hard skin underneath. ‘Scaly?’ she immediately though, feeling its rough and calloused texture beneath her fingers. The snows melted and steamed simply being beneath the creature and its heat, yet Dany was drawn to it like a hearth._

_“Thank you,” she said with genuine gratitude. Its eyelids seemed to flutter under her attention. “What are you?”_

_It looked hard at her for a long moment. It took a relatively small step back from her._

_Then it engulfed her in its shadow fire._

_She watched in wonder and horror as it slew the flesh from her, leaving nothing but bone in its wake. She felt wings sprout from her back as she was remoulded with black and red scaly muscle, talons instead of feet and claws instead of fingernails._

_The fire did not hurt her. It felt wonderful in fact. Exhilarating._

_But she screamed all the same._

 

~ ~ ~

 

She awoke with a jolt and bolted upward to a sitting position, sweating and panting as though she had just run for leagues. Her eyes roved up and down her figure frantically, trying to reassure herself that she was still human. She scanned her surroundings and was relieved to find she was back in her chambers. Feeling her heart pounding in her ears, she closed her eyes and took measured breaths in an effort to try and calm her breathing. But as soon as she closed them they snapped back open again. Closing her eyes only sent her back to that barren and frozen land, where corpses and monsters resided.

“What in seven hells was that?” she asked to no-one in particular.

A few sharp knocks sounded at her door; still shaken and disorientated from her dream, Dany feared that she would open the door and find glowing blue eyes staring back at her. Fortunately, a welcoming and worried voice waited on the other side.

“Dany?” her mother called. “Are you well? I thought I heard you scream.”

 _‘I screamed out loud as I dreamt?’_ Dany realised, mortified.

“I’m fine, Mother,” she assured, unhappy with the trembling cadence of her voice. “It was just a bad dream.”

She heard her mother let out a breath, apparently relieved that no harm had come to her. She welcomed her into her room, and Ashara closed the door behind her before sitting by Dany.

“You’ve sweated right through your gown, sweetling,” Ashara observed, pulling the damp fabric off of her skin between the tips of her fingernails. “Must have been quite the night terror. Do you want to talk about it?”

Dany shook her head. “I’m not sure there’s anything you could do to help me with this one. I don’t even know what to make of it myself,” she said with a shrug.

“Sounds like a challenge,” she teased. She got up from the edge of the bed and walked over to Dany’s wardrobe. Pulling out a nearly sheer lilac shift, she threw it over to Dany where she still sat under her covers.

“Change into that, love, while I get us something to eat.” She strode through the door before turning back and poking her head through the doorway. “Bread, plums and lemon water?”

Dany grinned. “That will do fine, mother.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They sat in comfortable silence as they dug into the food on their platters. Somehow, despite having been merely dreaming, Dany found herself exhausted and hungry in the aftermath of it, and so attacked the bread in front of her with vigour. The amusement was plain on her mother’s face, but if she had any jests on the tip of her tongue – and she was sure she did – she didn’t voice them.

Dany used the time and silence to take a good look at her mother. Never did a day go past where Dany wasn’t amazed by her beauty. The Jewel of Starfall, people call her. Some say she’s the greatest beauty this side of the Narrow Sea, others say her mere presence commanded the court’s attention during her days as Elia Martell’s lady-in-waiting. Some say a man could not look directly into her eyes without falling for her, others say she has only grown more alluring with age and motherhood. Looking at her now, she wouldn’t be surprised if the stories about her weren’t even slightly embellished.

In any case, her mother always cared little and less about what people thought about her appearance, and had once lamented that she wished she were known for qualities of actual merit instead.

 _‘People love to talk’_ , she had told Dany dismissively when it was casually brought it up. _‘If they harp on about me, I can’t even imagine what they’d say about you, my dear Stormborn.’_

She had been told that save for the tone of their hair being like night and day, she bore a great resemblance to her mother. She supposed her father was responsible for her silver blonde locks, as well as House Dayne’s predisposition for birthing pale-haired children. She knew little about him, only that he died during the rebellion. Besides that, her mother wouldn’t even tell her his name, though she could never understand why she needed to hide it. She tried not to care – there are plenty of bastards out there who don’t know one or either of their parents – but she couldn’t help but wonder. What did she take from him?  His nose? His smile?

“Dany? Are you there?”

Dany blinked and turned to her mother, who was looking at her with her eyebrows raised in question.

“What is it, mother?”

“It seemed as though you were focused on something not in the room.”

“Oh, I was just thinking about the dream I had,” Dany lied smoothly. There was no point bringing up her father now – it wasn’t why her mother was here anyway.

Ashara set her half-eaten platter on Dany’s bedside table, next to one of the room’s candle lights. “What is it about this dream that has you so bothered?”

“It just felt so real, mother,” Dany explained. She gripped the space in front of her with two hands, as though she were holding an invisible ball in each. “I kept questioning whether I was awake or not.”

Dany didn’t know why she was so sure, but she knew this dream was more than just her overactive imagination at work. She knew that somehow, what she saw was _important_. She couldn’t begin to understand why she dreamt what she dreamt, or what she could do about it even if she knew what it was trying to tell her. She simply knew that it had to be addressed – if not by her, then by another with the power to deal with it.

“Well then, what was it?” Ashara asked.

“I dreamt of...” Dany trailed off and fiddled with her fingers with her eyes downcast, as though she was a child confessing to eating the last lemon cakes. “I was in this land of snow I’ve never been to. And I saw…I saw an army of living dead men. Countless. And they were all staring at me with the most chilling eyes of blue I’ve ever seen.”

Her mother didn’t speak, so she continued. “There were also men who were made of ice, and they were mounted on spiders the size of horses. I had never felt so afraid, mother. They all suddenly began charging after me and I couldn’t do anything but stand there and wait for them to kill me.”

Her mother didn’t seem to be nearly as perturbed about it as she was, simply nodding her head in understanding.

“That sounds an awful lot like the tales of White Walkers and wights, dear,” her mother said. “Most children in Westeros know that scary story. You certainly do.”

“I know, but I haven’t been told that story since I was a little girl,” Dany explained. “And even then, they never scared me so much that I would have nightmares – I never believed a word of it. Why would they haunt my dreams now? And why would the dream feel as real as though I was awake? It’s almost as though it was a vision.”

At that, Dany could see from the subtle change of her mother’s face that something had _clicked_ , as though she had just silently figured out the winning move of a cyvasse game, but she tamed her features in an instant and shook her head.

“I couldn’t tell you, Dany,” she said evenly. “All I can really tell you is that even _if_ White Walkers are real, there’s an entire wall between us and them, yes? A Wall that’s stood strong for thousands of years up in the far North. So there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.”

Dany was unconvinced, but she acquiesced with a nod regardless. It would be too much to expect anything less than conjecture from her.

“Was that all?” her mother asked.

“No,” Dany answered reluctantly, “there was something else.”

“It doesn’t sound like it was any more pleasant than the dead men.”

“I don’t know what it was,” Dany admitted. “When the monsters closed in on me, I was sure I was going to die. But a creature descended from the sky and saved me.” Dany paused. “I think it was a dragon.”

Almost imperceptibly, her mother tensed up.  

“A dragon?” her mother questioned, almost disbelievingly.

“I think so. It was obscured in shadow, but there was no hiding its wings, or the feel of its scales under my hand, or its fiery breath. It burned the dead men away until there was none of them left. But then…”

Her mother’s eyebrows furrowed. “Then…?”

“It burned me,” Dany almost whispered. “It saved me, and I knew it didn’t hold even a hint of malice towards me. But when I asked what it was, it seemed to answer me by burning me alive.”

Her mother shivered and went in to hug her, rubbing circles into her back comfortingly with one of her hands. “I am so sorry you had to go through that, sweetling.”

A long silence. “It didn’t hurt,” Dany muttered.

Her mother pulled back to look at her. “What was that?”

“The flames…they didn’t hurt me,” Dany explained. “If anything they felt _good_. Warm and energising. It lit something inside of me, but I’m not sure what. The only way I can explain it is that the flames made me feel…strong, I suppose?” She shook her head. “It wasn’t the pain that frightened me, in any case.”

“What could frighten you, if not being burned alive?” her mother asked. It almost looked as though she didn’t want the answer.

“When I was in the flames, I think—” Dany trailed off, breathing deeply. “—I think I turned into a dragon myself. I was turned to ash and was reborn with wings and scales. And that was when I woke up, screaming apparently.”

Her mother let out a shuddering breath, something unspoken tumbling around in her mind.

“What do you make of it?” Dany asked her.

“What in the world _could_ I make of it?” her mother deflected. Her unease was becoming increasingly apparent. “Dead men and dragons are far past my scope of understanding, dear.”

Dany’s eyes narrowed. She could sense there was something just on the surface, but she knew if she didn’t draw it out herself it would never be unearthed. “Why do you seem so tense, mother?”

Ashara blinked. "I'm not tense at all." She slackened her posture as if to prove a point. She wasn't convincing.

"Mother."

Ashara began looking around the room as though an excuse would be found on the furniture. 

“Mother, look at me,” Dany urged.

Ashara closed her eyes on a nervous breath, and turned to her daughter. They locked eyes with each other, though Dany could tell she struggled to hold her gaze. She couldn’t lie to her face.

“What do you know?” Dany questioned, hoping her mother could see the plea in her eyes. “What did that dream have to do with me?”

Ashara swallowed hard. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she decisively clamped it shut and shook her head.

“I can’t tell you Dany,” Ashara whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “Not right now.”

Dany felt a leaden weight drop in the pit of her stomach.

“Why?” Dany asked, confused and hurt. “What could possibly be so dreadful that you have to hide it from me?” She racked her mind for anything, _anything_ in her memory that could give her a hint. And no matter what road she took, the destination always seemed to be the same; the same mystery that had hung over her head for as long as she could remember.

“Does this have to do with my father?”

“No,” Ashara clipped, standing from the bed. “We are _not_ having this conversation.”

Dany threw the bed furs off of her and raised to stand with her. “When will we ever? Seventeen years, mother! Seventeen years you’ve kept his identity from me! All you’ve told me is that he died before I was born. What am I meant to make of that?”

Her mother covered her face in her hands and sighed heavily. Dany was sure this was not what she expected when she came to check up on her, but this had been kept in the dark for long enough.

“I swear to you Dany, I swear I have my reasons,” Ashara implored, her hands over her heart. Her tears were falling freely now. “All I want to do is protect you.”

“Protect me?” Dany breathed. “Protect me from what? From whom?”

“Dany, please—”

“Who am I mother?” Dany cut in. She despised how her voice trembled. “I have the right to know, you know I do.”

Her mother’s wet and reddened eyes roved over her face as though she were looking for something. More excuses perhaps? Or perhaps the features of a familiar face.

“I made a promise,” her mother finally confessed, voice breaking. “A promise I’ve kept since the day you were born and a promise I intend to keep until I draw my last breath. Please understand, I cannot break it,” she finished with a choked sob.

Dany didn’t know what to say, or what to think. At that moment, she knew nothing at all.

“And keeping this promise means you keeping my father’s identity from me?” Dany asked.

Her mother nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Dany could only nod numbly. Dany had always wondered who her father was. As much as she tried to keep thoughts of him at bay, he was never far. His face was malleable, ever-changing. Who was he? A highborn or lowborn? A soldier? A whore? A Northerner? Whoever he was, Dany believed that were he really dead, it surely wouldn’t hurt anyone for his identity to be revealed. It certainly wouldn’t hurt her – Ashara was the only parent she had ever needed.

And yet it seemed as though knowledge of who her father was would put her and likely everyone around her in danger.

Who in the world was the man Ashara had involved herself with?

And who in the world was she?

“Dany,” a soft voice called, pulling her out of her waking stupor. It was her mother. Her eyes begged for forgiveness more than words ever could. “Can I make you a promise?”

Dany nodded.

“I promise that I will tell you who your father is. Someday soon.” Ashara hesitantly closed the gap between them and took Dany’s right hand in both of hers. “You have my word, I will explain everything. But the time must be right.”

Dany considered her for a long moment. She thought she knew her mother inside and out but now, she wasn’t so sure at all. And yet, despite the myriad questions that threatened to rip her apart, she knew one thing for sure.

“I trust you, mother,” Dany finally responded. “I don’t know if I should, but I do. I’ll hold you on that promise.”

Her mother nodded her head almost vigorously, and wrapped her arms tightly around Dany, pressing kisses into her silver-gold hair.

“I love you so much,” Ashara sobbed. “Never doubt that, my daughter. You may not have my name, but I love you more than you could ever know.”

Dany’s eyes burned unbearably with tears. She gripped onto the back of her mother’s gown and breathed her in. She smelt of lavender and jasmine – of home.

That night, she and her mother slept together in her bed, holding each other close and taking comfort in each other’s presence, under the ominous shadow that was cast over the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany has her first dragon dream! Ashara knew it was a possibility, but she also knew there was little to nothing she could do about it besides hope she didn't have them rofl. It would narrow things down too much if she explained it to her.
> 
> If anyone is wondering how I imagined the dragon appeared to Dany in her dream, it was something akin to [this.](https://i.imgur.com/LAQkNE8.png) Only replace the Pokemon with a big ass dragon rofl.
> 
> By the way, if you're asking "How does Dany resemble Ashara if they aren't related?", I point you to The Kingbreaker chapter (aka Barristan's POV) in ADWD:
> 
> "Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara's smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. Daenerys has the same eyes. Sometimes when the queen looked at him, he felt as if he were looking at Ashara's daughter …" - How fitting!
> 
> Next is Ned! Really! I promise!


End file.
